


Of Kings and Curators

by SteeleStingray



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Typical Abuse, Fish out of Water, Forced Cohabitation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Past Abuse, M/M, Magic, Modern AU, Modern Laurent/Canon(ish) Damen, Sex, Strangers to Lovers, Synesthesia, Thor AU, Time Travel, brief mention of a threesome, minor PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-06-12 19:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 65,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15347433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteeleStingray/pseuds/SteeleStingray
Summary: After the war, Laurent's family is gone, his uncle has taken his birthright, and his only joy in his work as a museum art curator. He enjoys taking care of the Akielon Art Exhibit including teaching the public about ancient Akielon myths and buying new pieces for the upcoming museum gala.But his newest acquisition has a story attached to it that even he was unaware of. Until it brings a hell of a piece of history right into his workplace.(A loose kind of Thor AU)





	1. 1. I'm a Lonely Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Eyyyy!  
> I've been so excited to post the first chapter, but since the first chapter alone was 20 pages and I went on vacation, it took me a hot second. In any case, welcome!  
> This fic was one of the highest on my Infinite AU List and is the idea of king-smaurent over on tumblr: kind of a loosely based Thor AU where nerdy Laurent (museum curator instead of astrophysicist) is going to have to deal with the god-sized problem of Damianos, king of Akielos popping up in his life. Also Damen has a bit of a power in this story (not thunder sadly; can you imagine?) that I'll reveal in a couple chapters.  
> I'm going to try to update weekly but we'll see how that goes with work/life/other stories.  
> Enjoy y'all!

**Of Kings and Curators**

**1\. I’m a Lonely Boy**

Here now is the city of Marlas, the capital of New Artes and the shimmering hub of trade and culture from the northern forests that touched Kempt to the south seas. It is a gem of a city. Only ten years old, it has been carefully cultivated to look as though it has stood for decades, though it has none of the common problems that plague older cities.

Though the buildings are elegant and open, combining the best of Veretian and Akielon styles, it is not a cramped city. The roads are wide, the public transport--the fleet of buses and the gleaming metro--are timely and not haphazardly woven through the sprawl whenever suburbs had been engulfed. Those civil engineers and city planners had put aside their blueprints for siege and urban offense and plotted Marlas out carefully, in hopes that this city would stand as long as the old capitals. They made space for beauty: large emerald green parks, spaces for artist collectives, quiet side streets for cozy cafes and hidden restaurants. It was as if by fostering all this beauty, the planners and politicians and architects and builders all hoped that the scars of war could be covered.

And the crowning glory of their efforts were focused on two buildings.

The first was the city library, made in the wide open Akielon style, with white marble and noble pillars and a large glass roof that allowed enormous swathes of natural light into the shelves and reading areas.

The other was the museum. It was all intricacy and art; taking advantage of Veretian design with cunning details along the edges, elaborate tiles designed to catch the eye, and tall windows edged in twisted black wrought iron. And inside the Marlas City Museum, with its' vaulted, painted ceilings and painstakingly detailed walls was Laurent of Vere, twenty three years old and Curator of Akielon Antiquities and Art in the museum. 

Laurent was a handsome young man, even when he put forth no effort into his appearance. Just like all other 'cleaning days' when the museum was closed to the public, he wore his scruffiest, most comfortable clothes: a black, oversized cashmere sweater, long legs in charcoal gray slacks, his oldest pair of black brogues, and eyeglasses with thick, stylish black frames. Back straight in perfect posture, he was perched on the top rung of a rickety ladder with his butter-blond hair pinned from his face so he could better see his subject. The subject of his intense gaze was his favorite acquisition in his exhibit.

Standing over seven feet, the marble statue was a marvel of Akielon sculpting. The lines of the wrestler's body were a study in boldness and power. He was standing proud, muscular, with his enormously lewd cock on display, shoulders thrown back, a winner's crown of delicate laurels resting on his curls, the golden paint long since rubbed off by elements and inadequate care. His carved eyes were almost challenging, daring any who gazed on him not to feel awe and desire. Though Laurent was Veretian, born and raised, he could not help but be held captive by the simple elegance of Akielon art. 

With steady hands, Laurent took a soft makeup brush from the cleaning kit on his lap and scrunched his nose as he lightly dusted leftover silt from between the statue's lips. With half-opened lips, Laurent would be lying if he said he had not thought of presenting a kiss as the champions' gift, but he always refrained.  

One would assume that he had tuned out the world around him but he did not even flinch as someone called out to him, destroying the quiet serenity of the Akielon Art exhibit. 

"Laurent!"

Laurent pushed up his glasses a little higher on his nose and finished his gentle dusting before turning deftly on the ladder.

"What is it Charls?"

Charls was Laurent's supervisor, the curator of the museum as a whole, and the resident expert on ancient garments. Better yet, he left Laurent mostly to his own devices, seemingly overwhelmed by the young man's beauty, intelligence, and polish. 

Charls was a portly, middle aged man of Veretian descent. Even on days without public viewings he dressed in the finest clothes and he was currently out of breath from jogging up several flights of stairs in an unforgiving wool suit. 

Laurent waited patiently as Charls put his pudgy hands on his knees and gulped down air like a man dying.

"Y-Yo-Your...your...d-delivery...from I-Ios...is...h-here!"

Charls yelped and nearly popped into the air as Laurent leapt off the ladder and landed softly on the balls of his feet. Laurent looked remarkably unperturbed to Charls but his heart was pounding with excitement over his newest batch of acquisitions. He had spent  _months_  in vicious debate with his supplier as to the amount and conditions of the pieces sent from the south.

One of his strides was two of Charls' as he abandoned his cleaning in favor of a brisk walk to the staff elevators. He tried his best not to tune Charls out in favor of warm marble under his hands, the scent of the sea and oranges and lemon blossoms stubbornly perfuming the stone after centuries of exposure. In the staff elevator, Laurent swiped his ID to be allowed entrance to the cargo bay and shifted his weight gently to each foot to eliminate some of his energy. From the cool, quiet order of the upper floors the two of them descended to the sawdust-smelling chaos of the cargo bay.

Wolf whistles accompanied Laurent as he exited the elevator, and though Charls looked as though he did not appreciate the blatant sexual harassment, he was totally outmaneuvered when it came to Laurent's rum runner. 

A rum runner was a necessity for the museum; they were so named for the black market alcohol they sneaked over war torn borders along with food rations and weapons, now they were the only ones with enough finesse and care to get valuable and fragile artifacts into the cities without having them stolen, sold or broken on the way. And Laurent's was a particularly savvy, if wicked, fellow.

At about thirty years of age, Lazar grinned at Laurent from where he was leaning against a large wooden box. He was tanned dark as a southern Akielon, his long dark hair pulled back out of devious, pale green eyes, so alarmingly bright against his swarthy coloring and ragged archaeologist's clothing. There was a toothpick he rolled around in his mouth out of habit from cigarettes being expensive and scarce after the war, but he licked at it as though he wished it was something else. No doubt he could whistle the loudest as well. 

With careless ease, he disengaged himself from his perch and strolled over to Laurent, the smell of sweat, sun, and dry grass signaling his approach.

"You go down like cold water, boss." He drawled, ignoring Charls, "When are you finally going to get out of this cage and join us on a dig? A little sun might do you good..."

Laurent knew if he allowed this seemingly-innocuous conversation continue it would develop quickly into outright flirtation and he was already perfectly aware that Akielons swam and sunbathed in the nude. His smile was indulgent at best, "I burn. Now, about this, I assume nothing is broken or has fallen by the wayside?"

Lazar gave him a long look. He had boasted that he was the best of the rum runners and had done his damnedest to show Laurent he was not just talk. 

"For you boss, I could move mountains, much less this..."

It was all there, Laurent counted as he and Lazar moved through the cool concrete cargo bay: twelve long boxes still stacked on the bed of the truck were filled with the smaller pieces in their own little sections, seven of various shapes were unloaded and clustered together--obviously parts of a whole, three more in various shapes off to the side, and one large pièce de résistance that had probably taken the entire crew to unload and place on the wheels that would move it to the Akielon Art Exhibit. Laurent's heart fluttered at the sight of them all.

Very few things brought him such sincere, childlike joy. But the pale golden boxes with their official government stamps and 'Fragile' stamps in both Akielon and Veretian made him feel something akin to giddiness.  

"You did well." Laurent responded by way of compliment and Lazar swelled with obvious pride. "How soon can we have the rest of them ready to open?"

"We can get them all down in the next hour." Lazar assured him. "Though...it might take us a day or two to get it all upstairs. I hope you didn't wax recently?" Laurent ignored his entendrés."In any case, I'd like to get that big fucker unpacked and rolled up before my...translator goes back down south."

By the 'big fucker', Laurent assumed Lazar spoke of the one massive box on wheels. Another whistle, sharp and commanding this time, brought the translator from the bed of the truck. 

Despite his best efforts, Laurent was still secretly intimidated by the mass of southern Akielons. This 'translator was a hell of a specimen, with a body similar to the statue Laurent had been dusting under his sweat-soaked tank top and well-worn khakis. His broad chest was a barrier, his dark arms swelling and shining, a beautiful man's body at odds with the boyish sweetness of his face. Hell of a translator, he could probably heave artifacts out of the ground with his bare hands, Laurent thought to himself.

Lazar was also obviously thrilled by the sight of his translator.

"Pallas, you demigod you, I knew you'd look mouthwatering when you sweat; I only wish it was in my bed that you'd indulge me." Laurent looked at Lazar, one eyebrow quirked up in the only way to showcase his horror and disbelief. Did he talk to his translator like this daily? "Go on and say hello to our pretty boss."

Laurent liked to pretend that he was fluent in Akielon, but truth be told, he knew most of the Akielons in his acquaintance teased him over the antiquated way he spoke. And Pallas' modern way of speaking gave him pause. 

"It is...nice to meet you." Laurent responded as the safest way of response and Pallas did look like he was about to laugh at the outdated greeting. 

As Pallas continued in rapid Akielon that needed to be slowly translated from old to new slang and then into Veretian, Laurent came to a sinking realization. He turned to Lazar in disbelief. "Does Pallas speak Veretian?"

"Fuck no." Lazar said easily. 

"What, dare I ask, is the point of having a translator if he is not able to translate anything?" Laurent asked dryly.

"Because he's cute and sweet and he can lift the front end of this truck without breaking a sweat." Lazar's toothpick flipped in his mouth with particular finesse. "You should see him dig."

"How have you been able to effectively communicate to Akielon crew?" Laurent asked coldly to mask the panic in his tone. Any misstep could destroy a priceless and fragile artifact. 

"Charades and vigorous hand motions." Lazar seemed like he was actually enjoying the entire exchange. "Would you like a demonstration?"

"I would prefer to see these boxes unloaded off the vehicle and become safe in my possession." He turned back to Pallas and made his tone much lighter; it was hardly his fault that his hiring manager was a sardonic flirt and an utter scoundrel. "Might you be so kind as to tell your...countrymen that I wish for the...cargo?" Pallas nodded through the stilted language, "To be moved to...over there." He pointed carefully to the spot closest to their industrial freight elevator, capable of lifting 3500 kilograms; he had forgotten the word for 'elevator'. 

"Close to the elevator?" Pallas added helpfully.

"Yes, yes." Laurent was so relieved at having the word provided he could have kissed Pallas. He didn't of course, but he  _could_ have.

It was enlightening really.

Pallas' Akielon was swift, warm, and honey smooth as he ordered the Akielon contingent of the rum runners to begin unloading the boxes and Lazar did the same for the wild-eyed Veretian men. Charls stepped off to the side; his cushy figure was more adept to lifting a steak knife than a heavy box and such activity would ruin the line of his fine clothes. The men gave him a wide berth while Laurent was actively involved in the process. 

He had learned by now. In the past he had been determined to show his rum runners that he was more than just a lovely face and a flow of cash; he could lift the corner of one of the massive, heavy boxes just as well as any of them and they all knew it now. Now he simply stayed out of the way and attempted to stay focused on the process rather than the oiled, piston-like motions of tanned arms. 

Pallas especially was a specimen to behold. 

Watching him hoist things into the air as if they were weightless with ink black curls damp against his forehead and eyes sparkling with the good exercise, Laurent was reminded of the summer of his seventh year when his family had gone to Akielos and watched the wrestlers practice under the sun. He had been transfixed watching solid muscle ripple like waves under red-brown skin; it had been his awakening—not sexual, no, he shook the thought away with a twist of bitterness—but to the idea that Akielos contained a simple, breathtaking beauty not always found in Vere.

Lazar caught Laurent's eye and his eyes glittered like twin peridots as if to say, 'I told you so'. 

A well-oiled machine dripping sweat onto the cool concrete floors and the last of the boxes were unloaded with a cheer from everyone present. True to form, they had taken less than two hours to get everything accomplished.

Lazar too was glowing with lifting and moving and inspecting the rear ends of his workers as he strolled confidently to Laurent. "Alright boss, we've got about an hour left on your payroll for today and then it's off to the bars. We can get the rest upstairs tomorrow but I think we should deal with the big fucker while we're still ahead."

Laurent was inclined to agree. 

Though child Laurent would have eschewed the idea of opening the largest box first as an affront to the very concept of gifts, adult Laurent was well aware that it would be a very relaxed afternoon the next day if he simply got the task over with. He also wanted to see that artifact the most. Luckily since one of the men had had the foresight to place the heavy box on wheels, moving it could be done with the combined man power of Laurent, Lazar, and Pallas while Charls assisted with directing them away from any corners.

The freight elevator groaned as the heavy cargo was placed inside and the four men hurried to squeeze into the regular elevator and meet in at the top. 

Wheelchair ramps were a bit more unforgiving and Laurent too was wiping away sweat with the sleeve of his sweater by the time they had gotten it to the closed off north wing of the Akielon Art Exhibit. 

The exhibit was still a work in progress, to be opened at the museum gala in two months, and unlike some of the other curators, Laurent took pride in keeping his as clean and uncluttered as possible. A large skylight had been cut in the ceiling allowing large swathes of late afternoon sun into the quiet halls. The white marble floors were veined with delicate strands of black and they had given Laurent the inspiration for his newest exhibit. 

The box was placed close to the skylight and Lazar jogged back to the cargo bay to fetch a pry bar for Laurent.

Laurent liked to open the boxes himself. He was reminded of the happier times of his childhood during the Ice Days when his family would give gifts and eat sugared fruit; the feeling of anticipation when presented with a gift was the same, even if the current presents were encased in wood and nails rather than boxes and bits of colored paper There was a wiry, almost feline strength to him that was well hidden beneath his work clothes. He gripped the cool pry bar as delicately as he would lift a sword and wedged the tip underneath the first nail head. 

His strength and experience allowed him to pop the nails out in one swift motion. He removed the lid of the box reverently, allowing the smell of hay and marble waft into the room. He dug his hands into the straw padding, letting his finger tips feel the cool, smooth basin, the ridges of the gentle etchings he would get to lovingly clean later in the week. Centuries of art and love and beauty on his palms, smooth and willing as how he imagined a lover's skin might be.

He was almost loath to step away.

But he pulled back to allow Lazar and Pallas to remove the bottom part of the box and the wheels. Straw littered the floor in clumps of gold and Laurent could see the shape of the fountain.

Made of one solid piece of black marble veined with actual gold, the fountain stood at hip height for Laurent and was smooth to a glassy shine. Along the outsides a master craftsman had carved various magical animals from Akielon lore with a steady hand. There were lions and lionesses representing the royals of Akielos, the six Summer Snakes that symbolized the harvest and fertility, the magnificent First Horses and the whales of Isthima, those stalwart old souls who guided sailors from storms and cut through the waves with ease. Even amidst this menagerie, Laurent saw the starbursts of Vere as well; perhaps the craftsman had been Veretian. 

Pallas, gleaming the same as the polished marble, looked over the artifact appreciatively, perhaps knowing what it been used for. 

"What is it?" Charls asked when no one else seemed ready to pose the question.

Laurent smiled to himself. He had made a very detailed list several months prior of what was being ordered and why, but he had long suspected that Charls did not read his emails and simply allowed all of Laurent's requests through. He would request something ludicrous next time.

"It's a sacred fountain." He explained, already flicking hay dust off the ridges with his fingernail. "There are fountains like these all over Akielos, connected to natural springs--you can see how this bit is smoother than the rest, probably from where the water was pouring through."

"They would bathe in them?" 

"Sometimes." Laurent responded though bathing was a bit too crude of a term for this beauty. "More of a spiritual cleansing than communal bathing."

"How cultured of them. I find it a tragedy Vere never took on such a brilliant social pastime," Lazar lamented, "Bathing with large groups of men is one of my few pleasures." He looked at Pallas as if his lascivious commentary would flatter his 'translator'. 

Laurent continued on, unperturbed. "But this one is obviously important. See all the lion motifs around the edges? See the patterns of laurels and the gold inlay? This was obviously reserved for only the highest in society. I would not be surprised if kings and queens were anointed in this fountain. And it is only big enough for one person of Akielon size."

"Perhaps you should give a demonstration." Charls offered. "On the day of the Gala. After all you can trace your lineage to the royals of Vere—." Only years of practice kept Laurent's pain from showing in any other way than tightening his grip on the rim of the fountain.

"I assume most anointing was done in the nude?" Lazar offered unhelpfully. 

"Yes I'm sure our Akielon donors would appreciate a Veretian curator stripping down and violating their sacred artifacts." Laurent retorted, perhaps with more poison in his tone than was meant. Charls blanched a little but Lazar remained unfazed. Pallas was frowning at the inside of the fountain. "In any case...you are free to go for today. The rest of the artifacts can be brought up tomorrow. Charls?"

"Ah, yes." The man perked up at having any modicum of attention. "My, erm, good man if you will follow me I will provide the pay stubs for you and your associates." It was a testament to Charls' good breeding that his professionalism did not slip when he referred to Lazar as a 'good man'. 

Lazar's eyes sparkled. "We've had a long journey and there's a bottle of whiskey with my name on it--where are you going, you beautiful slab?" Pallas had trotted away without explanation and Lazar shrugged. "I'll get him to celebrate somehow. Send him back down to the cargo bay when he's come back, will you boss?"

Laurent nodded and then offered his cheeks in the traditional Veretian farewell he hated.

Lazar, never one to avoid taking liberties, did not kiss the air by Laurent's cheeks, but placed his lips solidly at each corner of Laurent's lips. At least his mouth was dry and he did not smell of expensive cologne. Cheeky as he was, the man could get away with it without making Laurent feel ill. 

As he was left alone in the room, Laurent took a moment to catch his breath. 

He traced his blood, his pure blue blood on the thin skin of his wrist. He was one of the last two. All the Akielons boasting the same illustrious lineage had been killed as far as anyone could find.  _The last of two and no more after the two._  He felt distinctly ill at the very thought, at the history he could not stomach, coursing through his vessels, keeping him alive and killing him at the same beat. 

He merely jolted as a large, warm hand rested on his shoulder.

For a moment there was a feeling of dread at having to turn but the relief was immediate as he saw Pallas standing behind him, bashful at having interrupted his thoughts. Akielons were so simple and straightforward, Laurent could see all of those thoughts across that innocent face. In his arms he had three enormous jugs of fresh water. 

"What's this? Lazar has...gone down to get the gold--or the money." Laurent shook his head as he used the old term for Akielon gold coins. 

Pallas nodded in understanding and then tilted his head toward the fountain. "I brought water, for the fountain." The archaic Akielon was somehow bolder and more powerful coming from his impressive form. "It is bad luck for these to be without water. Good times come when the water does." 

How superstitious of him, but Laurent had begun to accept Akielon anomalies as par for the course. He accepted the water gratefully and set it by the side of the fountain.

"I hope to see you again." Pallas offered with an easy smile. "You are beautiful and you have fine taste in art."

Laurent allowed himself to enjoy the compliment of such a man. "Thank you. Please call on me whenever you are in the city."

Pallas was quick--even more so than Laurent--his long legs and sure strides making him look like a painted runner on the side of fire-orange Akielon pottery. Laurent could have watched him run for ages. 

But all too soon he was left alone in the closed wing with the fountain. 

He still had two hours left before work was over and the dusty state of the noble piece was irritating him, so he ran to fetch his cleaning tools in attempt to get a head start on his new exhibit for the gala. Rolling up his sleeves, he first swept the straw padding into a composting bin and saved any extraneous sawdust on the floor for later. With his soft makeup brushes, he dusted lingering dirt off the edges and grooves, blowing on the stone only when absolutely necessary. When the dust was gone, he dipped a soft shammy in water and began to wipe down the marble until it truly was clean to his exacting standards. The marble glistened like black water at the end of his attentions and Laurent wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sweater sleeve. 

He had been so focused on his task that the sun was already setting and his phone was vibrating with messages from Charls, asking him if he was nearly ready to lock up for the day. Laurent ran back to his office to get his simple work valise and to put his tools away for the evening. It was a shame he was in a rush, because he truly enjoyed the museum at evening hours.

On his way out, he paused.

The black marble fountain could not help but catch the eye. At first it looked to be a shadowed beast or a void open in the center of the room, but a second glance saw the sparkling veins of gold. It was as if the piece was bursting with sunlight, a star cracking the seams of black space. He saw the jugs of water placed unopened by the sides of the stone and remembered Pallas' warning that it was unlucky to not have the basin filled with water.

 _Hell, he knew more of Akielon culture than I do_ , Laurent thought to himself and set his bag to the side,  _and we can always drain it later_. 

It did look much better, he had to admit, as he poured the first jug inside and saw his owlish reflection on the glassy gold-black surface. The second and third jug of spring water quickly followed and Laurent stepped back to admire the breathtaking effect. 

Though the water would only come up to Laurent's ankles should he choose to stand in the fountain, it still managed to catch the light of the sunset. The surface of the water was a disc of flame: all coral and orange and red and lavender, and Laurent made a mental note to put the fountain under the skylight so that it would reflect every color of the heavens when it was full of water and on display. In moments like these, when he saw the art as it was meant to be seen, he could believe how the ancients had trusted so fervently in gods and magic and superstition. the fountain seemed almost otherworldly. 

The insistent buzzing of his phone broke the spell and Laurent turned his back on the beautiful thing, leaving it to the cool, quiet dignity of the museum. 

 

Every weekday night, Laurent left work, took the metro two stops to his serene studio apartment, and ate a small supper before walking the two blocks to his class. He took self-defense classes with a motley group of Akielons, Veretians, and Patran ex-pats taught by two of the strongest people he had ever met in his life. 

Makedon was a former Akielon general who had since retired and taught all manner of mixed martial arts. Wrestling, boxing and all-out brawling were his style as he threw men ten and twenty years his junior with a satisfying smack into the mats. He had the body of a man who would not be moved by the gods themselves, his hair laced with silver and eyes obsidian dark; though he first appeared gruff and unemotional as he threw his students around, most came to realize that he was a warm, fatherly soul, should the students rise after being beaten. He hated the weak willed and bullies. 

Halvik was a Vaskian immigrant, her Akielon and Veretian so guttural as to be unintelligible, and she taught those classes that Makedon would have decried as dirty tactics had he not held a terrified admiration for the woman. While just as capable and strong as any man in the center--with her bulging forearms and half shaven head--her methods were mainly about survival in rough streets. She showed how to disarm muggers and incapacitate rapists, how to blind a man with keys and nails and fend off multiple opponents even after being knocked to the ground. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't fair fighting but it allowed her students a solid head start to get away from the people who might hurt them. 

Laurent was partnered with her daughter Kashel who worked part time at the center and spent the thirty minute class practicing various ways of removing himself from elbow locks and half-nelsons and various other arm restraints. Halvik barked orders in curt Vaskian interspersed with one word suggestions for Laurent in Veretian. 

Though he had pinned the hair back out of his face, short strands were escaping and falling in his eyes as he seemingly collapsed in on himself and slipped out of Kashel's grasp. She stumbled back and Laurent had to make one of those split second decisions that Halvik always promised would save his milky hide one day. Did he stay and incapacitate or flee and find help?

He must have hesitated a second too long for Halvik's liking because her voice sliced the air and sliced deep. 

"RUN!"

She could not have know that when she bellowed such a simple and mundane word that it would have a profound effect on her pupil. 

Laurent could feel his blood turn icy as he forced himself to turn. He was nine years old again and his legs were too short and safety was too far. His lungs felt the burn of a long, desperate sprint even though his body had done no more than turned in place. 

There was a hand on his upper arm, big and strong and all the things nightmares were made of before he was pulled back. 

_I'm sorry mother, I could not outrun the soldiers._

He came to himself as his face slammed against Halvik's firm chest, her hands encircling him with the protective air of a mother. She must have known, even as her words were terse with instruction: "No. No freeze. Never freeze."

She held him there for a moment, seemingly chastising him but it gave Laurent a moment to catch his breath and compose himself.

“Duly noted.” He responded coolly when he could, stepping away from the protection of her arms. Halvik nodded in approval at his expression even if she probably could not understand what he was saying. The message was clear in any case.

Kashel was more intent on him, her gaze questioning, though Laurent knew she would never ask him why he hesitated. Vaskian women were not like that with men and would not share their thoughts with him so readily.

Still, her curious nature made him feel uneasy.

He knew that later in the night when Kashel would ask about his obvious panic, Halvik would shake her head and explain the common affliction for young men and women grown from the war. They were children of destruction with deep scars; they heard echoes of the past, fear was their constant companion, both Akielon and Veretian alike. 

She would never hold his minor PTSD against him and it would never be mentioned during sparring. He would simply have to hear Halvik’s husky voice through the gunfire, telling him to never freeze.

Some of the other men in the center were looking at Laurent appreciatively as he poured water into his mouth after his session was over. Though he appeared slender in his clothes, he was a slippery thing, very fond of dirty tactics so long as he ended up on top, and he was quick on his feet, throwing punches with surprising strength. 

Makedon clapped him on the shoulder as he went to his bag, "Laurent, will you be joining us for drinks this evening?"

It was somewhat of a gym tradition to go out for drinks or dinner every week on a random day and Laurent dreaded the days he was in for such invitations. He forced a polite smile and felt a momentary twinge of guilt over Makedon's disappointment. “Not today, thank you.”

Makedon shrugged as if it couldn’t be helped.

Laurent refused the invitation every time. He could guess at the disappointment of the other members of the gym who found him just as beautiful as Kashel and wanted to see him let loose after a few drinks. It would never happen.

“One day we’ll celebrate properly.” Makedon promised. “Be careful on your way home, yes?” He appeared cheerful but Laurent could see the look of seriousness in his eyes. Perhaps it was an old soldier’s intuition, but he could tell that Laurent was nervous about something.

Laurent never held any concern that Makedon would question him about it.

Soldiers bore their own burdens and fours of war had probably seen countless of Makedon’s friends and comrades to an early grave. He was not the type to pry or make emotional connections where they were not wanted. He just knew something was wrong.

“I’ll be careful.” Laurent promised.

He took no pleasure in the cool night air as he swiftly walked home. In the dark, in the city, he never felt truly safe. How would he even begin to explain to Makedon that his fear was constant, like fear of the air or of the sky? It was inescapable.

He swore he felt eyes on the street or heard whispers of men sent to intimidate him. If he broke a dozen noses, a hundred more unbroken would come the next day. He felt the presence of the man he hated like an iron blanket on the lovely city. So long as he walked home and did not deviate, it would be fine.

Still…there were times when the reminder was harsh.

When someone in the grocery would ask him if he missed certain unmentionable things over a pyramid of apricots. When pictures of Auguste mysteriously found their way into his post box. When the fucker himself decided to take a trip to the museum the same day as schoolchildren got in free of charge. Though taking self-defense classes made him feel more in control, fighting this force was like fighting the tide of a hurricane. He lived a lonely, exhausting existence.

Laurent did not breathe easy until he had jogged up the last flight of steps and locked himself securely in his apartment.

Precious pictures in delicate black frames pricked him with pain as he abandoned his bag and stripped off his sweaty clothes. He sat on the wooden floor, resting his head on the seat of his leather couch, trying to ease his pulse. _The last of two and no more after the two._  

 

It was a full moon that night and even in the ever-brightening city, there were some stubborn stars that peeped through the black-indigo velvet of the sky.

The New Artes Museum's newest addition, the black marble fountain, reflected the pinpricks of white on its' serene, watery surface. All was still.

Because all of the inhabitants of the museum were made from stone and wood and cloth and clay, not much was startled as the gold veins of the fountain began to glow and pulse like an actual living thing, a beating heart. Bubbles rose to the surface, lazily at first, but then faster and more violent until the water was frothing and boiling along with the throbbing of the gold from within. If any man had been present, they would have been blinded by the rays of gold, the white hot light of an exploding star that shone from the depths of the fountain, eclipsing all of the deep, ink black of the marble. 

And at the center of this explosion was a gasp for air. The god's breath into the first of the men and the light abated, the water settling back into serenity. 

The man in the center of the fountain sat up as if he had been drowning in the paltry bit of water, sending droplets of water spraying in every direction.

He was wet as if he had been doused, his black curls were dripping and slick to his head. He was as nude as the statues of champions around him and, as he got to his feet, seemingly just as tall. He looked around at the quiet museum and stepped silent and barefoot onto the tile floor.


	2. 2. You Need a Big God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, party people and so is the resident Big Boy!  
> For Damen I'm trying to do a call back to Thor's method of dealing with new things and people: just exuberant about everything and super protective of anyone who is kind to him. He is a guest in a foreign place after all.  
> And here you finally get a little glimpse of the 'power' (though I put it in the tags as well). Truth be told I got the idea from a great book I read recently and I thought it would be so nice to use here as a theme and also for Damen to have more insight on people. I promise I'll spell it out in future chapters ;)  
> Haha enjoy this chapter of latent THIRST.  
> Get wrecked Laurent.

**2\. You Need a Big God**

The benefits of having very few friends and no social life allowed Laurent to work as much as he liked, and the pay for a curator was very good. He usually woke up at 6:30 in the morning so he could go for a jog, shower, and read a little before taking the 8 AM metro to the museum.

He often prepared his own breakfast and always cooked his supper, eating out during lunch, but today he decided to stop at a local Veretian _boulangerie_ , ‘The Orange and Lily’, to pick something up.

He decided on a cappuccino with the perfect ratio of froth to coffee, a flaky crescent roll, still warm, and cut down the center so a pat of butter could melt inside, and two small blood oranges tucked into a stiff paper bag. The coffee-milk smell, the scent of the fresh bread, and the fragrant orange peel had his mouth watering as he walked up the employee steps of the museum.

As usual, he was the first one inside and he relished in the feeling of being alone and safe inside.

The museum would open at 10 in the morning. Charls would not be expected until half past 10 and, if Lazar had gotten his wish of drinking fine city alcohol, the rum runners would not show up until after lunch at least.

Laurent unlocked his office and went to enjoy his breakfast while reading emails.

The bread he found particularly warming for his stomach if a little painful for his heart. It reminded him of the bread in Arles, baked fresh every morning and sold by the half dozen in baskets. But those bakeries were probably gone now, wiped clean from the earth like a child sweeping a block house from a table. The oranges were easier to eat.

Laurent was on his second one before he saw the blinking red light of the security camera application on his computer.

He cursed softly under his breath as he clicked it. The fucking museum security system was so sensitive it could detect a feather falling on the floor; however, the cameras seemed to break every other week and the system was prone to sensory overloads that shut the entire system down.

He would have to put in a work order.

With the skill of endless practice, he rolled back the tape in hopes of seeing what sort of malfunction had caused this particular outage. The footage had stopped around midnight with the screen simply going white across all the cameras. It was as if a flash grenade had gone off in the exhibits and Laurent sincerely hoped that no thieves had decided to break in the past night.

Though he wanted to take a moment and begin his basic plotting of how his new pieces would be set up for the gala, it was probably best to do a walk of the museum before their day time security came, just to make sure nothing was amiss.

The thought of seeing his fountain as well was also a welcome prospect.

He decided to check the Akielon Art Exhibit first and primly wiped the sticky orange juices off his hands with a spare pocket square he kept in his desk.

His oxford shoes made a satisfying tapping noise on the marble floor as he walked briskly to his wing of the museum. It was quiet and serene inside, the morning light giving a studious quality to all the pieces inside. To anyone else, it might have been a welcome sight.

But Laurent was a child of war and he felt a prickle of unease on the back of his neck.

It didn’t occur to him what made him uncomfortable until he passed the open doors of the north wing and caught sight of what seemed to be a gaping black vortex in the center of the room.

It was the fountain, he recalled a moment later, and he was just as pleased with it as he had been the previous night. If anything, it looked just as beautiful in the light of day, with the golden veins sparkling in the light of the sun. He felt soothed by it for some reason…

…until he saw the water all over the floor.

It appeared as though someone had gone inside the fountain and splashed around carelessly, leaving puddles encircling the black marble. More puddles like footprints led from the open north wing to the main exhibit and Laurent was annoyed through his feeling of paranoia.

 _He would have to mop this before anyone arrived at the museum_.

It was probably a poor decision but he followed the puddles to the main exhibit hall, taking slow, half-circle steps to keep silent on the floors. The water led, ironically enough, to the statue he had been so carefully cleaning the day before and he felt breath enter him in a small gasp.

There was a man standing at the foot of the statue, staring up at it with obvious respect and interest. In any other instance, Laurent would think him an early patron marveling in a surviving bit of art. But the museum had been locked and he was unlike any visitor Laurent had even seen before.

He was Akielon. He had black hair wavy and long to his shoulders, the oil black eyes with long inky lashes, and a noble, straight nose. The biggest giveaway was the dark reddish brown skin of the south, plenty of it on display as he was completely fucking naked.

He turned to Laurent and Laurent regretted ever making noise or coming to investigate what had gone on. A few long steps and Laurent could see the situation was dire indeed.

 _Oh gods but he was big_.

At first, the man in front of him seemed to be the same size as the statue Laurent had been cleaning the previous afternoon but it was just the shock. Even so, he bore a striking resemblance.

He was on the larger half of six feet and he had a similar build to Pallas but bigger, so much bigger. He was taller, for one, the mass of him evenly distributed throughout his body. His thighs and upper arms bulged with muscle, his waist was thick but had definition underneath and his chest seemed as broad as horse’s. He seemed the type of man who could be hit by a train and the train would stop on its’ rails.

And the size of him was not limited to his frame and musculature. Laurent felt his ears go hot as he saw the most impressive example of life imitating art—or maybe it had been the other way around—swinging flaccid between his thick thighs. In any case, this cock like an olive sapling would not be made of cold, unresponsive stone.

It would be warm, it would pulse and grow in his hand if he gripped it, it would tremble when he groaned with pleasure…

As if he could hear Laurent’s thoughts—Laurent ripped his gaze away from the impressive organ—the stranger smiled and both of his cheeks dimpled deep as two bullet holes.

“Hello.”

His voice was deep with such a large chest to echo through. But after Laurent had finished being rattled by the baritone of his voice, he realized that the man had used the antiquated Akielon way of greeting.

Laurent felt a little faint. 

He realized he was quite far from the panic button that would summon the police to the museum and all the cameras were down. If this was another one of his uncle's ploys, it was the most effective one yet. A small part of his mind wondered why this man had never been implemented before. He was of such a stature that even Makedon and Halvik would be engulfed and the size of his cock would be enough to rip Laurent in half.  _Can't fight_. 

But he was also in possession of some very long legs and he would be on Laurent in a moment if he ran. _Can't flee_.

Laurent could only freeze. Halvik would be disappointed. 

"Where am I?" The man asked pleasantly in his archaic tongue. "I have never been here before and your statue is very fine." He must have noticed the uncomfortable silence because he looked carefully at Laurent again and then switched to High Veretian—never heard outside the oldest of plays still performed. “Forgive me, I had not considered that you did not speak my mother tongue. Might you be so kind to tell me where I am? I haven’t the slightest idea of where this is. But your statue is very fine. I should have one made for my home in Ios…”

Laurent was taken aback.

The man was standing calm with cock whipped out in the center of the museum and merely made conversation about the art in outdated Veretian. Perhaps Laurent was having a fever dream.

Best to start with the easiest thing to answer. If he kept this behemoth steady and happy then maybe he could escape somewhat unscathed. “We are in the Marlas City Museum—the Akielon Art Hall—and I am the…” he could not think of the High Veretian equivalent of ‘curator’, “I am the caretaker of these pieces.”

“If I was at home I would contact a stonemason and a sculptor at once. Though I had not known Marlas was a great center for art.”

“…Thank you. May I ask…who are—?”

There was a crash from behind them halfway through Laurent’s question.

Laurent turned to the side so that he could keep his eye on the big Akielon and still see what fresh hell was waiting behind him. He saw the tea spreading slowly over the marble floors and had the irrational annoyance that he would now have to have someone clean the tea and shattered mug as well before the museum opened; it was the least of his concern at the moment.

Charls—early for once—was looking at the two of them with slack-jawed shock, staring in turns between Laurent, their massive guest, and the rapidly spreading stain on the marble floor.

“Laurent!” He gasped. “Is everything all right? The museum is not open yet…”

“Yes, there is an _issue_.”

“Good morning.” The large man responded pleasantly.

“Who are you, sir?” Charls asked in his most careful Veretian, keeping his eyes pointedly away from any area beneath the man’s navel. “May I ask your name?”

“I am Damianos, the king of Akielos.” He replied with ease.

Laurent hissed as he sucked in breath.

 _It was impossible; no one had been able to find anyone in the Akielon royal family in the aftermath of the war._ And he was reasonably sure there were none named ‘Damianos’. The name did have roots in Akielon antiquity, however. It was a common name, often popular amongst royals when the people became tired of war, and Laurent could think of handful of kings with the name…

“How did you manage to come here, Damianos?” Laurent asked. This Damianos spoke eloquently and kept peace for a man that seemed crazy at first.

Damianos’ ink dark eyes shifted back to the entrance of the north wing and Laurent was suddenly stricken with how similar the man’s eyes were to the new artifact: seemingly the color of pitch until they caught the light. There were flecks of gold deep inside.

 _It was impossible. Ridiculous to even consider it_.

But it was the first thing that came to mind as Laurent considered and remembered the watery footprints.

Damianos spoke in Akielon first, the true name of it, and then switched back to his cultured, old Veretian for the benefit of Charls. “It was the ritual of the kings. I came through there.” He pointed to the object Laurent knew was there. “I came to this place through the fountain.”

 

Charls’ office was tucked a way in a private corner of the museum and stood in direct contrast to Laurent’s minimalistic office.

Every flat surface was covered in valuable curios, maps and paintings were hung on every square inch of wall space, and it was a rare thing indeed to find an office with a coat rack, a hat rack, a vintage cloak closet, _and_ a custom made shoe rack. Laurent felt as though he was sitting in a magpie’s nest.

The three of them sat in the plush office with steaming cups of coffee; Charls poured in a liberal amount of vanilla creamer, Laurent let his sit untouched, and Damianos was too busy looking from side to side, taking in all the detail of his surroundings, to be much interested in drinking. Though Damianos had showed no concern, Charls was more accommodating and was afraid of the hot beverage spilling onto a naked lap—"A lawsuit waiting to happen," he had whispered to Laurent—and had produced a fine counterfeit bolt of Veretian cloth in pale pink and black brocade for Damianos to wrap himself in; no other clothes found on such short notice would fit his frame. Damianos had accepted with thanks and wrapped it around him so cunningly that he did not look like a homeless vagrant wrapped in a blanket but rather appeared to be one of the statesman pictured on an old Akielon mosaic. Laurent almost wanted to ask him to do it again in case they ever came across a surviving outfit and wished to drape it across a mannequin. 

At least the 'king' had so far proven he was a model of courtesy and restraint. He was aware that their understand of High Veretian was limited, while his was damn near fluent, and he spoke slowly when they appeared confused. He had never once looked at them with the intent to size them up and had smiled and thanked them profusely for any small kindness. _When he smiled those dimples came out_...

Laurent blinked back the foolish thought and returned to the task at hand. Security had arrived and a cleaning person had been summoned to mop up the mess of tea and water in the exhibit before any patrons arrived, so their could talk at their leisure for an hour or two. 

"So, Damianos, you say you came through the fountain?" Charls asked without preamble.

"Yes." Damianos replied with such ease that Laurent almost believed him for a moment. "There are many similar founts throughout my homeland but...that one is unparalleled. I only wonder how it came to be in Marlas after all this time."

"It was found in a cave." Laurent murmured, "Unearthed after...years of hiding."

For some reason he refrained from saying that the war had blown open so many caves in Akielos, destroyed so much that new artifacts were always being unearthed. If this Damianos was just simple then...Laurent did not want to tell him what had been done to the land he appeared to love.

Damianos nodded, a small furrow of concern above his brow. "How unusual that it might have remained hidden. It is the most sacred of our fountains." Laurent had already suspected this and he could hold no faith in what Damianos said, but he still felt a flush of pleasure at being told he was right by someone. "Only royalty and the fountain's high priestess may use it."

"Please, go on." Charls insisted, rapt with attention. 

"I cannot tell you all I know. But the caves in Akielos are gateways," He glanced at Laurent from underneath dark fans of lashes, "the things mothers and grandmothers tell children to make them feel awe and fear. Surely you have such things in Vere. Those myths and legends that become so foolish on the cusp of manhood."

Laurent had difficulty swallowing.

He remembered his mother and brother stroking his hair and telling him stories that brightened his eyes and sharpened his thirst for fictions. He also recalled the day he was fourteen and screamed into his bed sheets to the Sera, those beautiful protectors of Veretian children with their solid gold wings and crowns of star sapphires, asking them why they did not protect him from...from everything. The Veretian stories he had been told seemed so foolish and bitter in his stormy teenaged years. Only now was he hesitantly approaching the legends he had cursed with palms up in a gesture of peace.

"I thought them to be tales of grandmothers and children until I became a man worthy of Akielos and..." He paused for a moment. There was a bloom of pain in his expression, something very raw and new, before he was able to compose himself. "And it was my time to be anointed in the water of our caves." 

Laurent had to hand it to him: the man was a very fine storyteller. 

He was sure Charls could also see it in his mind's eye, what with his glassy look, as Damianos continued in his deep, sweet voice. He told of how every young man and woman who came of age in his Akielos would go to their cavern temple and wash the inexperience of childhood and emerge adults in the eyes of society. They would begin to hold jobs or positions on the family estate, get married, have children and the like. Laurent liked hearing this simple coming-of-age-tradition. He wondered when it had been lost to time or war...

And it begged the question why a man easily in his mid-twenties would wait for so long. Perhaps princes did not become men until they could prove their skills? And with such importance did they—? The answer struck him easily and he kept the information tucked away for later. Now was not the time to cause this Damianos fresh pain. 

Damianos had waited until he heard the appointed time and then went with the High Priestess to the fountain when the sun was highest in the sky. He said the cave was made of white stone—the name too much for Laurent and Charls to understand in the antiquated Veretian—but in any case, it was white and glowed under the firelight, the fountain and the priestess' robes both black and gold in stark contrast. 

"She told me that...that this was the true test of a king." Damianos admitted. “The leaders of Akielos have done this for as longs as the records show and the fountain will reveal fate.”

“What is your meaning?” Laurent did not want to encourage his delusions but…it was a compelling story.

Damianos shrugged his shoulders. “Just as each man is different, so too are their fates. Our first famous queen returned from her journey with the first of the olive trees and planted them throughout Akielos. Many returned with children or the ones they chose to marry. One king said he stood for years in the aftermath of a great war and took care to foster peace in the kingdom.” Laurent felt a little ill at the thought of an Akielon king currently standing in what had been the glory of Ios. “There are hundreds of stories.”

“But they always come back?” Charls asked, enraptured.

Damianos nodded. “Always after an hour or two. Always changed but yes they return to Akielos.”

“And your fate?”

“I-I do not know it yet.” He glanced at Laurent quickly and Laurent felt his cheeks get hot. “Perhaps it will reveal itself in time.”

Laurent resisted the urge to grill him on every aspect he knew of Akielon culture. _So much had been lost—stop! He is simply confused. He is under the delusion that he is a king._  But then...he had spoken with such conviction. 

Charls on the other hand was clearly overcome by Damianos’ tale. His expression was one of barely restrained emotional tears. He even pulled out a pocket square in cobalt blue paisley and dabbed at the corner of his eyes before taking a sip of coffee to steady himself.

“It is very clear what we must do,” Laurent was too slow as he saw the expression of romanticism in Charls’ eyes. “We must let you stay with us until destiny reveals itself to you!”

Laurent’s heart sank as Damianos beamed with gratitude. “ _Charls_. A word? Outside, please?”

“Of course! Excuse us for a moment, Damianos.”

Laurent trembled with nerves and annoyance as he waited for Charls outside the door of his office. He whirled on the man as soon as he stepped outside.

“ _Are you out of your mind_?” He hissed not wanting to accidentally call his boss a ‘fucking idiot’. He hoped his tone could construe the sentiment.

“You’re right,” Charls nodded thoughtfully, chewing on his thumbnail, “My spare room is unfit for guests right now. I have been meaning to organize and put my clothes in the closet…”

“Not that!” Laurent whispered. “He is a complete and utter stranger. What if he intends to rob you or murder you? We have no idea who this man is or where he has come from. At the very least he is _very_ disturbed and needs to be taken to a psychiatrist.”

“Nonsense,” Charls waved him off, “He seems very confident in himself. I for one certainly believe his story, magic or no. Perhaps it has something to do with the museum itself!” His eyes brightened with the romantic appeal of a handsome stranger and a mysterious destiny.

It certainly was quite a strange occurrence.

The destruction of the video cameras and the explosion of water from the center of the fountain. Laurent had not seen any clear signs of a break in upon his arrival at work and Damianos spoke like a man out of an Akielon epic or a Veretian play. Even so, Laurent could not bring himself to trust the man.

He was so lost in thought that he almost missed Charls’ next ridiculous suggestion.

“He must stay at your apartment for the night.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“I have no place for him to sleep right now, what with the state of my closets.” Charls flushed with embarrassment over his main purchasing weakness. “You have an extra bedroom in your apartment, don’t you?”

“Forgive me if I do not want a stranger living in my house.” Laurent said coldly.

“Only for the evening!” Charls begged. “Perhaps he is mad and we can discuss quietly what should be done. But aren’t you curious, even in the slightest? Think of his insights on Veretian cloth from his time! Think of what he might discuss with you about Akielos!” Laurent resisted the urge to glare. Yes, he was curious but it was not enough to put his safety on the line. “Just for a little while.”

Laurent just leveled a cool glare at Charls until he began shifting uncomfortably.

A soft click interrupted their silent battle and Laurent felt his knees melt a little as Damianos leaned out and his sheet gaped open down the front. “Forgive me for interrupting. But please do not concern yourselves with the issues of my lodging. I am perfectly capable of staying in the museum near the fountain.”

 _Locked inside with hundreds of priceless artifacts?_ Laurent would have been suspicious if Damianos had not looked so very…genuine. It seemed as though it would be something cruel to acquiesce. He made a decision quickly.

“Come with me.” Laurent demanded.

He turned on his heel knowing that Damianos would easily keep pace with him.

They made their rounds to the Akielon Art Exhibit with months of Laurent’s careful research and cultivation on display. Surely there was something to be said of the way Damianos’ eyes lit up like a child’s when he saw how lovingly the art had been venerated…

“This is the most priceless art of Akielos.” Laurent explained. “Do you recognize any of it?”

Damianos leveled him with a look that said he was clearly a fool for asking. Then he made a quick route around the exhibit with Laurent trailing behind him. It suddenly felt to him like he was the intruder here; that all of his studies on Akielos were nothing in comparison to the simple fact that this stranger was Akielon. Laurent knew nothing. Damianos breathed this art, it was a part of him.

“Of course I know this…” His dark fingers trailed along the glass of a jewelry display and Laurent had the sudden ridiculous urge to break the glass and allow Damianos to don the gold circlets and jeweled bracelets. “Some of these things belonged to my…” He paused for a moment to keep the obvious grief at bay, “my family.”

Laurent watched and listened as Damianos listed the unknowable history behind several of the pieces.

Here was the set of laurels that had been placed on his head after he had won the okton. The little golden horse on wheels of chipped onyx had been a family heirloom he had no longer been allowed to play with after he had caused one too many chips in the wheels. This signet ring his best friend had stolen once when they were teenagers so that they could make fake decrees and post them throughout the city, to great alarm. He spoke with such utter sincerity and great detail, it was hard not to place faith in him.

Laurent was nearly breathless as he spoke, wanting nothing more than for him to continue. _Never grew out of loving stories, I suppose_.

Damianos paused by a glass case of long golden cuffs. Many were engraved with images of fruits or animals or people caught up in intimate embraces. The older children always giggled at them, but Damianos read carefully, obviously trying to translate the small plaque with the explanation written in modern Akielon and Veretian.

“Forgive me but…I believe these have been improperly classified.”

Laurent walked so that he was standing shoulder to shoulder—or his shoulder with Damianos’ lower bicep—with the man who claimed to be a king. “They are not wrist cuffs worn by royals?”

Damianos smiled, dimpling deep. “They are worn by married couples.” _The man had no such cuff on his own wrist._

Laurent made a split-second decision. “Damianos, would you like to stay in my apartment tonight?”

 

Damianos kept busy that afternoon once the rum runners arrived.

Lazar whistled as he looked up and then looked up even higher at the confident form of Damianos. “New sculpture for your exhibit, boss? Or is this a piece of art for your… _personal_ collection?”

Laurent ignored him as usual and turned to Pallas with a request and a few bills. “Can you find clothes that will fit him?”

Pallas took a moment to return with a simple grey T-shirt and a pair of khakis that seemed somewhat new by rum runner standards; the cotton boxer shorts and slip on shoes were new, if cheap, and Damianos did not complain. Laurent saw him shifting his feet in the shoes and adjusting himself when he thought no one was looking.

Charls promised Damianos that they would get him some new clothes in the near future.

“It is very tight.” Damianos admitted, refusing to complain outright.

And the tightness of his clothes did not hinder him in the least from helping the men move the boxes from the cargo bay up to the exhibit. He could lift twice what a normal man could and Lazar stopped working after a while, just so he could watch Damianos mop the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt.

The rum runners lingered until the light grew orange red, simply wanting to spend more time around the sunny young man. He drew people to him.

“If you don’t want him at any point, my offer still stands.” Lazar offered in a voice that was not quite a whisper. “My bed certainly has the real estate for two Akielons at once.” The toothpick flipped out from between his lips.

Laurent ignored him. _If he was assaulted and murdered that evening then Lazar was more than welcome to the giant Akielon ‘king’._

Still he did feel a bit safer having a man the size of a small car practically holding on to his shirttails.

If Damianos was lying about his origins, he was certainly making a good show of it. He jumped as cars passed, looking to Laurent hesitantly as if hoping that he would offer some explanation. He did the same for buildings, staring up as they passed tall ones and looking as though he had seen a dragon. His head whipped back and forth that his curly hair became a near whip for unsuspecting passersby.

The metro was also a challenge.

Damianos must have wanted to blend in, seeing the metro patrons walking through the plastic turnstiles with a loud beep, and strode with confidence before Laurent could stop him. His strength was such that the plastic preventing people from shirking their fare snapped cleanly against his thick thighs and the machine gave a sorrowful prolonged beep.

“What the _fuck_ , Damianos?” Laurent asked, so mortified at the attention on them both that he reverted back to current Veretian.

“What is the matter?”

Under the furious eye of the station manager, Laurent snatched Damianos by the very warm and muscular forearm and dragged him over to purchase a train pass. Damianos obviously did not feel the scrutiny and shame of breaking a piece of public transportation as he was too intrigued by the way the ticket machine sucked up money into its’ depths.

“May I attempt?” He asked, eyes shining.

 _Denying him would be like yelling at a puppy._ Laurent handed over a bill and felt a twinge of satisfaction as Damianos grinned and his cheeks dimpled deep once the money was accepted and a plastic metro card was spit out.

Laurent showed him how to place the card on the turnstile so that the plastic doors would swing open for him.

“This place is astonishing.” Damianos murmured as they waited for the train. Laurent was tired.

As Laurent and Damianos were hit by the blast of wind signaling the train’s arrival, Damianos elbowed himself in front of Laurent in a decidedly protective gesture even though he jumped from surprise as the train roared into view.

Damianos paused, looking a little terrified as the train doors opened and Laurent stepped deftly inside. “Damianos, _hurry_.” Laurent insisted, knowing that the train doors would shut in thirty seconds. If Damianos did not get on, Laurent would have to get off at the next stop, wait for a return train to take him back to this fool, wait for another train and physically haul the man on board. Or maybe the king would use those massive arms to tear the doors open and cause another scene.

Laurent had a headache just thinking about it.

The lights above the doors began to flash and beep insistently and Damianos sized up the door and the gap like an oversized spaniel preparing to jump onto a leather couch. He leapt through the door in one long jump, his broad chest colliding with Laurent’s face so that his glasses nearly fell off his nose.

Damianos fixed them with steady gentle hands, his voice nearly breathless with excitement as he watched the doors close behind him. “ _Amazing_.”

Laurent took a small step back so he did not feel the healthy beat of Damianos’ heart through his face but close enough that he could bask in the man’s body heat, like he was a lazy little reptile.

Sensing that no one else was interested in speaking while on the train, Damianos remained silent for the entire ride, blissfully unaware that several people were staring at him. _Wonder if any of them would extend the same offer as Lazar_.

When they got off the train, Damianos hopped over the gap without worry and put his pass down expertly, waiting for the plastic gates to open before he plowed through. Then he turned to Laurent, grinning in delight as if to show off his easy adaptability.

Laurent kept his expression deadpan and clapped twice, feeling a little bad as Damianos grinned brighter at his teasing.

His mood did not enhance with time.

There was someone waiting for him, slipping out of the alleyway silent as a shadow, halfway on his way home. He sighed as he heard the familiar sound of spitting on the sidewalk.

“Hello darling.” Govart leered, skulking like a gorilla into Laurent’s path. Truly there were very few things less welcome to see in his neighborhood. He had the look of a thug, all harsh corners and misshapen lumps. Even his teeth were crooked, like the broken keys of an old piano. “Long time no see.”

“That was quick.” Laurent responded, knowing that a new acquaintance would bring the bastards out of hiding as surely as syrup drew flies.

“Who’s your friend?” Govart asked, looking with distaste up at Damianos. Like most bullies, he did not care for the appearance of someone bigger and stronger though Laurent did like how Govart did not bother with niceties. He did not dance around his threats.

“A coworker.” Laurent said, pretending to search for his keys in his leather bag.

Laurent felt the shadow fall over him and sighed. The two of them could rant and rave at each other all night but Laurent knew if he beat the man it would only bring the true monster to his doorstep. Better to ignore him.

“You little bitch, we keep logs of all the people who work at the museum.”

“New rum runner.” Laurent lied easily, taking out his keys.

“ _Look_ at me when I’m talking to you, fucking—!”

In a move nearly too quick to see, Damianos had grabbed hold of Govart’s wrist and twisted until Laurent heard the crack of bone and a roar of pain.

“Do not be rude.” Damianos hissed as Govart fell to the ground at his feet, gripping his limp wrist. It had been so smooth and quick that Laurent felt dizzy. He had known Damianos was strong but had not seen it in action until that moment. Damianos grinned at him a moment later. “Shall we?”

Laurent gingerly stepped over Govart’s body. “Send Uncle my regards.”

As they entered Laurent’s apartment and Damianos bounced around the place, delighting in every new appliance and technology he encountered, Laurent thought carefully.

Maybe having this ‘king’ around his apartment would have its benefits. Maybe it would be enough of a deterrent to keep the monsters at bay. He extinguished the small hope as quickly as it had come.

_No, don’t be a fool. Auguste is dead. So are mother and father. There was no one on this earth who could protect him. He could not even protect himself._

 

_What a beauty he was._

_He had looked a little funny at first—like one of those white winter owls—with those strange round bits of glass over his eyes, making them enormous. His eyes were very blue but the blues were slightly different. The left eye was the blue-green of the reefs of Isthima, the right was slightly darker, a more pure blue. The halo around his head was ice blue as well, bits of pale gold glimmering at the base of it near his hair._

_Damianos had seen from that pulsing bit of color that Laurent was as nervous as a feral cat, eyes sizing him up as if for a fight and then abandoning the plan. His eyes had flicked behind Damianos then planning to run. Damianos would have let him. He was shy and frightened. Who wouldn’t be?_

_But then he had taken command of his own work, showed no fear in the face of a threat. There was a core of something immovable and noble about the way he carried himself._

_His mother had always told him that his gift was unique, that the gods had blessed him for his two bloodlines and that surely the fountain would hold the greatest of destinies for him. That he would find something that would change his life on the other side of his reflection._

_As a child he had scoffed at the seemingly antiquated beliefs of his parents but now he truly knew, truly experienced what she meant. The place, the people were a marvel. Laurent was a work of art._

_No matter that he was in another time and another place. He was going to stay by this young man’s side until the gods revealed their plans to him._

_Laurent._ Laurent _. What a pleasant name._


	3. 3. Head is Spinning Thinking 'Bout Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!  
> I know you won't mind but you still may be wondering why I'm posting a day early. I have people coming to visit so I won't have access to my computer until Sunday. Rather than make y'all wait, I just decided to update today ;)  
> I have been having quite a bit of fun trying to balance out Laurent's personality with all of his clashing personality traits; at least making him older has made him a little more mellow than he was in canon. But rest assured, he and Damen are going to be having some biting exchanges.  
> Also shoutout to my boy Lazar who sees what he wants and fucking GOES FOR IT. What a legend.  
> As always, thank you for the comments, kudos and love and I hope you enjoy!

**3\. Head is Spinning Thinking ‘Bout Boys**

When Laurent woke up the next morning, for a brief time he completely forgot that he had a guest. He never had guests.

So he took a relaxing shower, put in his contacts and took his time selecting his outfit for the day—a navy vest and matching slacks, a black Oxford with sleeves rolled to the elbows and his shiny black patent shoes—before even thinking of going to prepare his first coffee of the day. 

He liked coffee. When he was a child before the rationing went into effect, his father, mother, and brother had all enjoyed at least one delicate cup with breakfast so now the taste and smell reminded him of them. Coffee had not been rationed for years but he still treated the stuff like it was powdered gold. He remembered the smell and bitter tang of it coming from an empty tin with a spray of bullet holes in the sides.

His coffee press was loud and grinding enough to wake a heavy sleeper...or call the concerned attention of an Akielon roughly the size of a draft horse.

Laurent jolted, spilled fresh coffee grounds all over his shoes as the door to his extra bedroom burst open with the impatience of an emergency. His mind went on autopilot at the racket: someone was in his house. Someone had broken in.  _Fight_ , came Halvik’s voiceas Laurent took quick stock of what was available as weaponry and then the quickest route to his phone and the door. 

A serrated fruit knife was the closest available sharp object and he turned carefully, not wanting to slip on the spilled coffee powder. He could kill someone easily with this; he knew he could because Halvik had once given an entire month’s special class on how to defend oneself with small knives.

He schooled his expression so that whoever his uncle had sent to remind him of the way things were run would not see any sign that his pulse was through the roof. He would astonish them with his serenity and disarm them with nothing more than a fruit knife and his sharp tongue.

As the footsteps came closer, Laurent strolled out from behind his hiding spot, reciting in his mind all of the proper points to crush when one wished to cripple a man. On the outside he knew he was all nonchalance but he could feel the memory of childhood terror bubbling up in brackish, black tar from the center of his heart. 

Almost lazily, he slipped so that he was standing beside the intruder, the knife pointed straight where the carotid artery would be pulsing under a silken thin layer of skin.

“You—.”

Hands, strong hands, gripped the wrist with the knife causing him to drop it while the other attempted to wrest his elbow up in preparation for a lock.  _Shit_.

Laurent followed through on the motion and did not allow himself to go rigid. He felt the man collapse on the lack of weight and pitch forward. 

Laurent dropped an elbow on what felt like a back made of tensed steel and tried to retrieve the knife. His attacker responded by grasping him around the waist and trying to yank him back. Laurent punched hard and relentlessly at a rock solid flank, feeling a small glimmer of satisfaction as the man holding him grunted in pain. It seemed all for naught though as Laurent felt like his knuckles were bruising.

Laurent was not a small opponent.

He was a young man of average height. Lean, but muscular and dexterous, so it was a feat of someone truly huge and skilled who could lift him off his feet like he was pet puppy. And yet he suddenly found himself flipping upside down from the sheer strength of his opponent. 

His legs rattled as he managed to land on his feet but he stumbled backward. As Laurent tried to catch himself and prepare to block, he saw dark curls and a lovely smile; the terror fled from him as swiftly as it had come.

He found himself pressed gently against the wall, his arms in a lock like a steel girder while Damianos smiled down at him. He had no hazy-eyed indication of sleep, though his curls were wild, and he seemed delighted by the impromptu early morning sparring match. Hitting him had been like hitting a punching bag filled with drying cement. Laurent wondered if he had even felt the hits.

“You fight well!” Damianos said, appraising him with the joy of a man who had seen many great fighters in his life. 

“I relish the compliment,” Laurent said tartly in modern Veretian and then switched, “Do you intend to release me?”

Damianos obliged immediately and beamed pleasantly as Laurent turned and nearly broke his nose on the largest pectorals he had ever seen. Damianos slept and fought in the nude it seemed. The man liked having his dick out though it was not in any way predatory.

Laurent could practically hear Lazar though it was spoken with a tone of Laurent’s keen interest:  _if I had a cock like that I’d show it off too..._

“You took your clothes off.” Laurent notes with a coldness so as not to betray the heat of his gaze.

“This makes you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.” Laurent replied trying and failing to act as if it didn’t concern him. “Peddle your nudity elsewhere.”

“I understand.” Damianos laughed without restraint, his large brown buttocks quivering with the tremors of it as he walked away to locate his discarded clothes. Laurent narrowed his eyes and promised to tell the man it was Veretian custom to clean the floors before eating breakfast.

When Damianos returned from the bedroom wrapped in Laurent’s bedsheet—Laurent made a grim mental note to wash his sheets—a small breakfast had been laid out at the counter.

His studies had told him that the typical ancient Akielon breakfast consisted of olives and goat cheese eaten on hard bread but Laurent was not partial to olives so a Veretian breakfast it would be.

Laurent expertly swiped hazelnut spread across a piece of toasted bread and tossed it on a plate.

“Hungry?” 

“Yes!”  _Of course he was_. Men the size of Damianos were rarely peckish. He nibbled on it carefully, getting used to the taste before remembering his manners. “Thank you.”

Laurent watched him carefully as he eagerly devoured anything that was put in front of him, though he did have excellent table manners. He only paused for conversation once when the issue of beverages arose.

“What do you drink?” Damianos asked, watching Laurent remove his tiny cup from the coffee machine. 

“Espresso.” Laurent responded and watched as Damianos rolled the word around silently in his mouth.

“I’ve never heard of it...”

“It’s...” Laurent thought of the spilled grounds and the small amount he had left combined with the man’s appetite. But he could hear the voice of every person he had ever liked telling him not to be an ungracious host and offered anyway. “Would you like to try?”

“I will try some.” Damianos said with the supreme confidence of a man who rarely shied away from a challenge. Laurent raised one eyebrow before handing the cup over.

It looked like children’s dish toy in his massive hands and Laurent struggled not to laugh as he tried to thread his massive fingers through the delicate handle. 

His laughter bubbled out in a hiccup as Damianos took a sip of the coffee and made a face of pure disgust before he could disguise it.

“It is...” Damianos seemed to struggle to lie despite the fact that he had already given his true thoughts away, “very...potent.”

Laurent laughed a little again as Damianos gratefully returned the cup; he could not remember the last time another person close to his age had made him laugh.

“You can say it if you dislike it.” Laurent offered, willing to be diplomatic if only because he enjoyed the horrified expression on Damianos’ face as he relished his first sip. 

“You were gracious enough to share,” Damianos offered bashfully, “and I must do my best to adapt to this place. Do most drink this?”

Laurent lied a little, wanting to see Damianos’ reaction. He nodded over the rim of the small cup and smiled at Damianos’ grimace. “Maybe you will learn to like it. You do not like Veretian foods?”

“I like the wine,”  _of course he did_ , “and the food from Sanpelier.“

It was Laurent’s turn to grimace. 

Sanpelier was at the thin border of Patras and some intense spices of the region had inevitably crept over the border into the cuisine. And though he could handle the bitterness of an espresso, spicy foods were beyond what his mouth and bowels could bear. Damianos’ smile got brighter.

“You do not care for Patran food?”

“I do not care for spending my nights locked in the bathroom,” Laurent muttered under his breath and then used his Akielon, “No.”

“Maybe you will learn to like it.” 

 _Fucker_.

 

It took them twice as long as usual to make it to the museum for the sheer fact that Damianos seemed to have the eagerness of an overgrown puppy with the curiosity to match. Laurent could hardly rein him in as he discovered the delights of shop windows, LED screens, and the clothing of every person that passed.

Finally Laurent had to hail a taxi and nearly shattered his annoyance as Damianos tried to figure the best way to enter. He was too comically large and Laurent shook with silent laughter as the man nearly bashed his head against the metal doorframe as he tried to sit and slide like a normal human would. He managed to get in by nearly diving headfirst across the seat, his expression still clearly delighted with the new experience. 

He was intrigued by computers as well and Laurent let him play on one of the work tablets while he replied to emails.

Charls had called in sick that morning and had left Laurent a long email by way of explanation. Laurent massaged his temples as certain bits—the annoying bits mostly—stood out. ‘—have to ask you to house Damianos for another evening’, ‘—have him help the rum runners when they come in’, ‘—of course I will pay him for his work in helping them’. Laurent deleted the email in annoyance and then looked to where Damianos was running his fingers across the keyboards to make the satisfying clicking noises.

_What to do with a man who has never run a museum and knows nothing of modern technology?_

His saving grace arrived from the unlikeliest of places when Lazar knocked once on his door and practically burst into the office looking as if he had just rolled out of bed.

“Boss! Big boy! What’s on the menu for today?” He kissed Laurent’s cheeks with wicked delight before visiting the same exaggerated greeting on Damianos. Laurent looked at him for a moment and calculated.

“Lazar…do you think you could find Damianos something to do today?”

The man looked far too delighted at the prospect, his jade-green eyes surveying Damianos’ massive chest without the slightest bit of secrecy. “ _Can_ I? I have been dreaming of sinking my claws into him for hours.”

Damianos looked at Lazar first with confusion and then amusement before following him.

He turned back to Laurent before he left completely and said, “I will come back.”

Laurent froze up a little as he recalled the number of people who had told him something similar and then had never returned. “Yes, that is the general idea.” And then peace. Blissful peace.

He spent the rest of the day in his routine: blocking off the areas where he planned to create his new exhibit for the gala, listening in on a tour, and going in to clean some of his pieces though he gave the fountain a wide berth. He only paused for a moment during lunch to see if Damianos was hungry.

He went down to the cargo bay in search of the man but only found one of Lazar’s hired men eating a sack lunch and looking at a filthy magazine atop a stack of boxes.

“Where are Lazar and Damianos—where is everyone for that matter?”

“Lunch.”

“Damianos has no money to buy lunch.”

The man shrugged. “Maybe Lazar will pay for him.”

 _Fucking useless_. Laurent tried not to let it bother him but he was a little concerned that he could not see what kind of chaos they were getting into outside of the safety of the museum.

“They’ll turn up eventually.” The rum runner offered, turning the page.

When Lazar reappeared with Damianos at the end of the day, they were both glowing with relaxation from the aftermath of good exercise, though Lazar was walking a little funny. Pallas was nowhere to be seen.

“Out drinking?” Laurent asked, deadpan to hide the burning curiosity that frothed just underneath the surface. 

Lazar’s smile reminded him that he was always too curious for his own good.

He rounded on Laurent and hooked one arm lazy and familiar around Laurent’s shoulder as if they were comrades in arms. 

“Keeping that king around was the best goddamn decision you’ve ever made in your life, boss.”

Laurent smelled it on him like the ghost of old sheets and an unaired room; it was a scent that made him recoil. 

“What in the fuck—?”

Lazar shrugged. “I suppose I’ve been drinking. Nothing what you might be imagining though.”

“You’ve been fucking?  _Him_?” His voice was a hiss as he pointed at Damianos. “Or Pallas?”

“Yes, both.” Lazar said with the absolute unconcern of a man who’d been fully fucked out. Laurent began to see more signs then: a hickey on the neck, lips swollen from kissing and sucking, a few scratches high on Damianos’ biceps.

“You must be joking.” 

“Gods why would I joke about such a thing? The cocks on Akielons...I swoon!” When he saw Laurent’s disgusted expression, he amended his answer. “They’re both far from home and alone. I think it’s good for them to get something pleasurable and familiar. What better than a little _ménage a trois_ to lift the spirits?”

“Would you mind keeping your voice down?”

Lazar was unrepentant as he continued with his tale. “Pallas is a specimen all to himself and he can barely fucking walk. We had to leave him back at the hotel. I had to get ice for my asshol—.”

“I understand the general idea.”

“You aren’t curious then?” Lazar threw himself enthusiastically across a leather bench, lounging like a swain in an antique Veretian painting. “Big as he is? Don’t you wonder if he’s in proportion?”

_I know already that he is._

“If you are not totally incapacitated then there are some things I would have you move.” There were not but Laurent wanted a quick change of subject.

Lazar shrugged.

He would brag to the point that Laurent would hear about the depravities in some form or another later in the week. “I envy you sharing a house with that man. Best two hours I’ve ever spent and I could still be persuaded for more. That mouth! That cock! Gods of love, save my body! Have a statue erected to Damianos; he is no king, he’s a  _god_!”

Laurent cursed him silently as he disappeared around the corner.

So Pallas was decommissioned for the day and if Lazar was having to ice his ass, Laurent could not imagine what his poor ‘translator’ was going through.

As Damianos sidled up next to him, meek as a dog who had been caught humping a feather pillow. Laurent didn't mean to come off so brusque but he couldn’t help his tone. “I hope your lunch was relaxing.”

Damianos nodded thoughtfully. “I became closer with Pallas and your…bandit.”

Laurent nearly choked over the surprise and hilarity of the description. “Do you understand what Lazar’s…” He had to pause for a moment to think of the word, “work is?”

Damianos thought for a moment and Laurent wondered if his reply was going to be filled with cheek or double entendre. But he spoke carefully, and had been—Laurent realized—crafting a response Laurent would easily understand in the old Veretian. “He takes things and gets them to people who want them. He is not a thief and not a pirate and not a mercenary, yet...I feel he is similar.”

‘You don’t know how right you are,’ Laurent thought. “He is a scoundrel and he works for me. If you desire him might you avoid ravishing him during the time he must work?”

Damianos looked mildly amused. “My...business was with Pallas. But Lazar is also his lover so,” he shrugged as if that would explain. 

Laurent tried not to imagine.

But he had seen Damianos naked and he could easily imagine Pallas in the same vein. His mind twisted hot with perspiring copper and brown and skin the color of baked wheat before he could help himself. 

Ancient Akielon, so low and quick he could not catch it, broke through the mire of his thoughts;  _it had almost sounded like poetry_. Damianos was looking at him from under his eyelashes.

“If it is displeasing to you I will attempt to abstain.”

If Laurent had been in any less control of his expressions, he might have blushed furiously. “It is none of my concern so long as my men can work.”

“I understand.” Damianos nodded solemnly. “Next time I will take care to be more...gentle.”

The blush came.

“N-no, that’s not what I—.” His staunch refusal was interrupted by his alarm reminding him that work was over and that he needed to begin preparing for dinner and his fighting class later that evening.

At first Laurent considered skipping his class for the night. But then he reconsidered when he thought of how much the classes helped him relax and unwind after a stressful day at work. Lazar's little exhibition of improper fraternization with a coworker and a king from hundreds or thousands of years ago had him feeling a little hot and frustrated in the chest and stomach and he knew he needed intense physical activity to tamp down that little hot coal he hated.

Also Damianos did not seem at all sated.

He was obviously a fit man, used to hours of vigorous exercise every day, and he obviously needed some stimulation as he practically bounced down the sidewalk. Laurent had a set of free classes that he could offer a friend but he had no friends; may as well give them to the man before he decided to run laps around the kitchen for entertainment. 

Perhaps Makedon could also find appropriate gear for Damianos' massive form. Charls had promised to buy him clothes at some point, but his poorly timed sickness had forced Damen to remain in the same clothes Pallas had loaned him. 

He approached the idea tentatively after dinner. Damianos was helping him dry plates without a word of complaint and Laurent wondered if he was ever forced to do such a thing back in his time. "As a king you...participated in swordplay, yes?" Laurent asked, frowning as he stumbled over the words.

"Yes." Damianos responded with the modern Veretian and Laurent shuddered to think of where he had heard it often enough to memorize it. "A king should excel in all manner of sports. And you? You can fight with a blade?"

"I took fencing classes as child.” He admitted, recalling the pleasant cool feeling of the hilt in his hand.

“We should duel.” Damianos offered. “I will be gentle.”

“I will actually fucking kill you.” Laurent replied, rising to the bait and Damianos smiled as though it was what he had hoped for.

“Your quarters are a bit…small for a proper match.” Damianos looked around though as if he were strategically planning out where and how their fight would take place. The idea of slicing through a feather pillow or two did appeal to the ornery spirit in him…

My home is the perfect size for living. And what about other types of fighting? Like fighting with your hands?"  

Damianos' eyes grew wide and excited with the possibility of a challenge and Laurent recalled their scuffle before breakfast that morning. "N-No, not right now! I take a...I have instruction some nights on combat and I wondered if your interests—."

"Yes, _yes_!" Damianos nearly dropped a glass in his excitement as he turned to Laurent. Laurent noticed some unruly curls had slipped out from the band holding his hair back from his eyes. "I would like to go." 

Laurent could not have denied him then even if he had wanted to. 

A half an hour later and they were standing in the center mat of the self-defense room while Makedon and Halvik appraised Damianos with awe. By the grace of the gods, Makedon had found some clean exercise clothes that would fit Damianos and not threaten to burst at the seams, though the shorts were riding a little high.

"Who is your friend?" Makedon asked appreciatively. He was not used to being towered over and yet...

"Coworker." Laurent lied smoothly. 

"Damianos," he introduced himself.

Makedon spoke to Damianos in his authoritative Akielon and Damianos responded in kind, clearly refusing to give quarter even in his speech. Makedon laughed good-naturedly. "He speaks like my great-grandfather did! Well, I suppose you history lovers are unique in your own ways."

"You call me strange?" Laurent asked, feigning insult.

"His is his speech. It has rubbed off on your manners. The laces of Vere are gone but you have them in spirit." 

Makedon could not possibly know.

He said such things with the air of teasing and Laurent kept his life close to his heart, so no one could carry the blame. But Laurent felt that collar around his neck, the leather of it as heavy and oppressive as if it were padlocked there again, and he could not breathe. He was frozen as if laced tight at the wrist and ankle, tight as those solemn Veretian portraits he hated. Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_...

Damianos was too quick for Halvik this time. His lovely, dark face ducked into view as he looked deep into Laurent's eyes, shielding him from prying eyes. He smiled as he spoke, "No...Laurent likes beautiful things. He is Akielon in that way."

Breath came back to him and the force latching him in place was gone. 

"Simplicity." He murmured.

Damianos smiled so deep that he dimpled on both sides of his mouth.

"Come then, Damianos. Let's see if your size is all for show." Makedon ordered, his entire body thrumming with anticipation for the sparring match of the year. Damianos looked Laurent over once again before he followed Makedon back out into the center of the mat to begin. The other men in the center who had been watching Damianos with some trepidation now circled around the main mat like sharks, perhaps hoping that this enormous newcomer would be put in his place before he got uppity. 

Laurent, despite his desire to calm down and to watch the match, turned to begin his own practice with a different partner until he felt a strong hand on his upper arm. Halvik stared ahead with a stone-faced expression but excitement in her eyes. 

"Stay. Watch." She ordered softly. 

Laurent paused, wondering if she could sense his erratic heartbeat, and then quietly acquiesced. He watched the steady roll of Damianos' shoulders, watching the muscles bulge and twitch under his clothes as he stretched out.

He was pleased Halvik had convinced him to stay. 

When Makedon and Damianos collided, Laurent swore he could feel the tremors through the floor though neither man appeared to have budged in the slightest. The only sign of their exertion was a slight quiver in Makedon’s legs and a single bead of sweat that ran down Damianos’ temple. Laurent held his breath and waited for the break.

It happened so suddenly that he almost missed it.

Makedon gave out first—or perhaps it was a feint—and then both the men were rolling on the ground, scrabbling for purchase against dark, slick skin. Laurent inhaled in three sharp bursts, his lungs seemingly shriveled when confronted with the sparring match in front of him. They were a statue, a painting on the side of a vase, a carving in a bracelet; they were a work of art.

It was like being in his museum—it was better than being his museum. All other things fell away and he was innocent and sweet again, watching the men wrestle in the hard-packed dirt, and it was _beautiful_.

He was so transfixed he hardly heard the cheers as Damianos pinned Makedon in a hold that he could not escape, one of those wrestling holds that had been lost to time. Makedon, ever the good sport, clapped Damianos on the back as the younger man helped him to his feet; he loved a good competitor. Halvik and Kashel whooped and several of the spectators who were not terrified out of their wits managed to cheer for the fine showing.

He knew his eyes were enormous as Damianos came trotting back over to him, happy as could be from winning, when he stopped for a moment. He looked at Laurent intently and Laurent closed his eyes to keep him from looking like an owl. It was…unseemly.

When he opened them again, Damianos was smiling again, his cheeks flushed with happiness.

“I never lose.” He whispered.

 

_The lights of this city were too bright and it kept Damianos from sleeping comfortably._

_Though he had drawn the curtains, the light seeped in and he could only stare at the ceiling and think. His day had been filled with new information and watching the halos of color surrounding him._

_Damianos was getting better with the current versions of Veretian and Akielon and he was at least pleased that filthy talk had not changed much since his time._

_The lovemaking had done him good._

_Pallas was truly a piece of art in body and Lazar, for all that he was not to Damianos’ normal taste, was remarkably flexible and had ideas that not even the whores of his teenage years had suggested. His color was that lewd pinkish-red that the whores had as well. It was familiar; it made him feel better._

_Laurent had blushed so furiously at the mention of it that Damianos wondered if he reserved his love for women. It would be a shame. But he saw the colors before either of them could help it._

_Laurent had the most beautiful skin; it was so smooth and pale it seemed as though any touch would leave soft pink fingerprints…_

_It was no good to think on it and dishonor his host._

_Far more haunting was the ways he had seen how some brutal war in the very recent past had affected this beautiful place._

_Pallas had whispered into Lazar’s hair that his father would be rolling in his grave if he knew his son was in bed with a Veretian. Lazar and several of his comrades often had those far off, melancholy moments of quiet contemplation that Damianos had seen on men who had lost friends to strife. Laurent was as cautious as anyone on the streets and he took those fighting classes after his work hour. Damen recalled the bright blue slices of fear and panic that had flashed like dying stars in the colors above Laurent’s head and found he did not care for the sight of it._

_Their families…Damianos wondered but felt it would be in poor taste to ask outright. Surely they were all men who had lost someone or something important. He could understand._

_He too had been eager for war and glory as a younger man. Many of his childhood heroes had died gloriously on the field of battle. He recalled his mother smoothing his hair and suddenly ached for her gentle touch and golden color, if only to soothe his loneliness in this foreign place._

_“Your heart is too tender, my son, for visiting cruelty on others.” She had told him once as an attempt to deter him._

_The gods had seen his heart and heard his mother’s pleas._

_Perhaps he was meant to help heal this place. Those slightly mismatched blue eyes came to mind before he could help himself._

_It seemed too simple but his thoughts only whirled around that single bright spot._ Laurent…


	4. 4. You Were the Shadow to My Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you are going to hate this chapter immediately cause the Regent makes his appearance. He's always here to ruin everyone's day but at least Damen is having None of It.   
> As an apology the first bit of this chapter I tried to make soft as all hell. I love describing stuff (ie. the food in Touch You, the smells in Je me Soucie de Toi) so I had a great time talking about all the clothes and colors available. Also Laurent and Damen cracking each other up GIVES ME LIFE so I hope you enjoy the humor in this chapter too. You cannot tell me that in canon they would be making each other laugh just as much as sassing each other. I WILL ACCEPT NOTHING LESS!  
> Enjoy, people!

**4\. You Were the Shadow to My Light**

Laurent awoke to an email notification pinging from his phone and he furiously wondered who the fuck from work was awake and sending him messages.

The fucker was in fact Charls, his boss, cheerful over having possibly found a solution for what Damianos could do to earn his keep while he was in their care as well as his plan to get the man some proper clothes that afternoon. Charls had taken it as due course that Damianos truly was a king transported through a magic fountain portal; Laurent, cynical as he was, refused to believe something so far-fetched though he was beginning to admit to himself that Damianos was not a crazy man.

When Damianos emerged for breakfast—thankfully in a pair of gray cotton boxers, which Laurent counted as a hard-earned victory—Laurent was waiting for him with Charls’ proposal and twin steaming plates of eggs benedict.

Laurent pondered for a moment, wondering how to phrase the offer. He was not sure if the ‘king’ would disdain the work as beneath him.

“Damianos, do you know what a gala is?”

“Indulge me.” He responded, looking suspiciously at the way the egg and hollandaise spilled into the toasted muffin.

Laurent explained the yearly gala was when the museum showcased their new centerpieces to their donors and some of the most wealthy and influential people in society. A black tie affair, the most coveted invitation of the season; Laurent left out how preparations ran him ragged, he was constantly worried a drunk socialite would smash one of his pieces, and how certain guests made passes at him.

“We always need to hire on extra security leading up to the party,” Laurent explained as Damianos chewed, “to prevent thieves and unwelcome guests. The pay is good. And given your—.” Laurent’s mouth became a little dry as he regarded Damianos’ impressive musculature. _Why all the fuss on having him wear clothes_? Laurent reached for his water.

“I accept.” Damianos smiled at him and Laurent nearly choked on his drink.

He wiped the water from his chin. “Excuse me?”

Damianos shrugged and his shoulders bunched attractively. “You are going to ask me to guard the museum and my fountain and you. I accept. I have the form to deter most men and I am short of coin. I will do as you ask.”

“Ah…then I will let Charls know.”

“You both are kind to think of me. I often wonder how the kings before me managed. They must have found someone like you. Though I doubt it was an ally who threatened to kill them as much as you do.”

“No one is like me.” Laurent said tartly.

“No one is like you.” Damianos agreed, smiling down at the remainder of his breakfast. _He was one to speak: a man without equal._

Still, his approval and the subsequent solving of his employment problem had Laurent in a good mood on their way to the museum.

Charls was already waiting for them with paperwork for Damianos to sign. The fact that he was so early and exuberant, had Laurent immediately withering under what he knew would be a long shopping trip. He hoped that he could avoid being chaperone on such a journey but no such luck.

“Laurent you _must_ come along as well for a second opinion.”

“You do realize we have a museum to run?” Laurent responded dryly.

“The other curators and security will be present,” Charls waved his hand as if all their concerns would be brushed away with the motion. “And your rum runners will be here as well.”

“Gods save us.” Laurent shuddered at the thought and he heard someone choking back a laugh.

Damianos had a very poor poker face as he attempted to bite back a laugh from escaping his trembling lips. Laurent couldn’t help but smile at that and they both had to look away before Charls caught them or their fragile façade crumbled.

“Fine, fine. Leave it in Lazar’s…capable hands. But I will not take responsibility if the police are called.”

“What is ‘police’?” Damianos asked politely.

“Erm… they are guards. City guards.” Charls explained. “I will give you an advance on pay so that we might pay for your garments.” Laurent let them both hash out the issue of Damianos’ terms of employment while he attempted to rouse Lazar from whichever sweat-soaked embrace he currently found himself in via text.

‘Could you drop by the museum today to make sure nothing is on fire? I am being hauled away for torture.’

It was too early to hear back from him in any case, and Laurent looked longingly at the safe, quiet confines of the museum as Charls and Damianos beckoned him into the confines of a taxi.

The unlikely trio set off to the vast list of clothing stores Charls could recommend in the city. From La Flare, where classic mix-and-match pieces could be purchased, and the casual shoe store Elt, to Kyanós, the premier outfitters of modern ‘Akielon’ style, and Arnoul and Sons Fine Tailoring, where there was an actual waitlist to even visit the store (a list Charls cheerfully bypassed with a single phone call).

In most instances it ended up that Laurent and Damianos were left to their own devices as Charls was pulled into the owner's offices for a cup of tea or coffee or brandy if it was very posh, and some spirited conversation on the season's newest colors and patterns.  _Charls was a loyal and valuable customer_ , Laurent thought wryly as he carded his hands through forests of cotton, wool, leather, and silk. 

No one could deny that Laurent himself had style, though he favored the same, simple pieces with understated colors to be readily mixed and matched. Damianos was in possession of the fine coloring and swagger where he could pull off anything. 

"I cannot wear a chiton?" Damianos murmured sorrowfully as he looked at the fitted pants.

"I'd be half tempted to let you," Laurent whispered, unthinkingly in modern Veretian though Damianos perked up as though he understood, "especially in lieu of this." He held up a pair of particularly garish trousers in mustard and pink check between his thumb and forefinger and Damianos clapped a hand over his mouth. His shoulders shook with silent mirth and Laurent too dissolved into poorly disguised giggles; they attempted to stop as a disapproving worker passed by but Damianos' smile was too wide and Laurent knew his eyes were too big and bright and they had to laugh hysterically into the legs of the god awful pants. 

To avoid further scrutiny, they began to grab things at random off the shelves to a dangerous result: they did not check the sizes. 

The first time Damianos had shuffled from the fitting room with a pair of charcoal-colored slacks only pulled up to his knees and a look of supreme bewilderment on his face, Laurent laughed so hard he thought he might be sick. He could not remember the last time another adult had made him laugh—perhaps Jord before...everything, but even then only a soft chuckle or two. Laurent's stomach hurt as he felt large warm hands hesitantly touch his chin and then a finger tapping lightly on his wheezing mouth.

And though Damianos gently cautioned silence, he too was smiling again, almost laughing at the ridiculous nature of their shopping. _Surely a chiton would have been easier for such a frame_.

But as Charls chatted away endlessly with old friends who valued his business, Laurent got Damianos a proper modern wardrobe.

They started simple, with everyday wear: jeans and plain cotton shirts, flannels and underwear (which Damianos  _hated_ ) black socks and informal shoes. They followed with dress clothes, more of Laurent's style, in Arnoul and Son’s, where the suits were tailored and would take two weeks to construct though they could still purchase button downs and accents. They also served delicate flutes of champagne to their customers; Damianos had taken a sip, appeared delighted, and knocked the entire glass back in one enormous gulp. His happiness was compounded when the shocked salesman handed him a replacement and Laurent hissed at him to sip it. 

Laurent jumped and nearly spilled his own drink as Damianos appeared silently next to him as he was stroking ties and silk pocket squares. "Which colors do you like?"

Laurent calculated.

He accepted it unthinkingly as due course that Damianos would select whichever colors he offered up.  _But which would look good on him_? His hands danced over the rainbow of silk whispering the names: 

"Mint...peach...violet...coral...sky blue..." He balked at red; _not red, never red_. 

Damianos tilted his head and interrupted. "Which ones do you  _like_?"

 _Their hair, the baubles glinting in their home from generations past, his birthright. The blood of that fountain. Auguste._  "Gold." He said without hesitation. "I like gold."

Damianos' eyes flicked to the top of Laurent's head, likely smiling at all the gold he saw there. "I do too." _Of course he did. Kings are rather close with gold._

But there was a tie in black with delicate gold bands, a pocket square so deep violet it was nearly black with gold edging. And when Damianos allowed the shop assistant to help him into a stock shirt and jacket so he could see the accents worn, Laurent had to pace his breathing to keep it even.

Of course gold would do it. Gold made anyone look stately but on Damianos…he looked like the king he claimed to be.

He relaxed into it as he saw the glints of gold edging in the mirror, touching the yellow edges of the cuff links as his long hair settled elegantly on his shoulders. Gold was his element and anyone who saw him would be blind if they did not see a king standing in front of the mirrors.

The man who worked the floor complimented Damianos liberally before producing a cloth tape measure to begin fitting him for trousers.

“Do not kick him.” Laurent warned as the tape measure got daringly high on Damianos’ in seam and he gave the worker a death glare. “He will not make a pass at you, I swear.”

After the initial discomfort, Damianos behaved himself and allow the increasingly amazed tailor to make his measurements without fear of having his eyes blackened. He placed the tape measure around his shoulders and made some final notes before turning his awe to Laurent.

"It's going to be a hell of a suit."

"If you need more fabric, I believe we have a medic's tent lying around the office." Laurent responded dryly. "Just dye it black if you must."

The tailor smiled and gave Damianos another once over, appraising him with a designer's eye. "Your lover is a hell of a man."

Laurent nearly sputtered. He checked himself before making his voice cool and businesslike. "He's my coworker." Laurent ignored the second scrutinizing look, as if checking his expression for the lie, and the subsequent shrug. _Since when had they hired on assistants with such cheek to talk about their customers in front of their faces_?

"My mistake. In any case, you coworker is a lot of meat and we'll need a second fitting in a week and a half. Does he have a personal phone number where I might be able to reach him?" Laurent snatched the receipt and appointment slip without looking over at him again. _Should have let Damianos kick him, this nosy, prying little--_

Laurent's icy, annoyed thoughts ceased as Damianos touched the center of his back and smiled down at him. "We are ready to depart?"

"Yes." 

"He even speaks like a character from a play." The tailor laughed. When no one else seemed to find humor in his observation, he tamped down his awkward manners and meekly offered to fetch Charls from the back room.

"You should have let me kick him." Damianos whispered the moment he was around the corner.

"Do not start with me." Laurent warned, though he struggled to keep his mouth from turning up. 

It was even harder to keep emotionless as Charls emerged from the owner's office, swaying and smelling of fine brandy, very much put out that he had missed out on the fun of seeing a friend fitted for new clothes. 

And so Damianos' first unearned paycheck had been spent in the course of a single day out. 

At the end of the day spent almost entirely on shopping, Damianos was given the bare bones of a wardrobe, including a security uniform and some clothes for exercise. Crisp bags and boxes were piled in his massive arms and Laurent refused to let Charls take any.

“Let him earn his keep.” Laurent said struggling to hold back laughter and he was pretty sure Damianos was cursing him quietly in archaic Akielon.

Laurent was excited to go rest and relax after spending most of his day being sociable, but he paused when he heard heavy footsteps behind him. Damianos grinned at him from between his parcels and Laurent almost felt bad for having to dash his hopes.

Charls saved him from having to break the news, having to nearly stand on his toes to grasp Damianos by the shoulder.

“Not today, my boy. My spare room has been cleaned and you are more than welcome to stay with me until destiny reveals itself to you.” Damianos looked back at him to make sure he was being sincere and then stared at Laurent again.

The gaze cut him to the quick.

It was almost as if he could feel Damianos’ thoughts through his gaze. Wondering if he had done something to displease Laurent. Wondering if Laurent would be all right on his own. Though he had lived on his own for quite some time, Laurent found his concern touching.

“I’ll be fine,” He assured and Damianos jerked and blushed. _Did he truly think he was not as transparent as glass_? “Go with Charls.” _Stay far away from my absolute mess of a life_.

“And our sparring lessons?”

He had nearly forgotten about Damianos’ love for his self defense class. Perhaps it would be good practice, to have him navigate the city and the metro on his own. More than that, Laurent found that he sort of liked the idea of having a regular exercise partner.

“Do you need directions there?”

Damianos’ smile could have blinded Laurent.

 

The fifth day of the week was children's day. Any person under the age of 16 was able to enter the museum for free and though some of the older, stuffier curators decried the noise and crowds as a disturbance to the sacred air a museum should have, Laurent not-so-secretly thought they could go fuck themselves. 

He liked having the children breathe life into the place. They ran through the marble halls and let their imaginations run wild. He saw the love in their bright, wide eyes as they transported themselves to a past filled with magic and heroes and art. Most of the younger ones had never known the pain and terror of war so they could imagine a beautiful future with art and gentleness and fine things that people took care not to break. Laurent delighted so much in their presence that he could often be found sitting cross legged on the marble floors, telling a child-appropriate version of the stories Lazar had told him of how the pieces had been found and brought here. 

When surrounded by a cluster of elementary school children, Laurent withdrew an Akielon coin, heavy and yellow with gold, explaining to them how the Akielons loved simple designs and the faces of gods, royals and heroes, even on the surfaces of their money. As he spoke, he danced the heavy gold coin across his fingers and rolled it down his shoulders to the hand opposite, smiling to himself as the children carefully followed the glint of it. 

They gasped when Laurent pulled the simple trick and he felt the heavy weight of the coin disappear into his shirt cuff. 

He crouched down low, taking a conspiratorial tone that all children knew as breaking the rules under the nose of those on high. They would not ever have noticed the security cameras, much less known that they were currently defunct. For now their thoughts were only taken with the missing artifact. 

"These coins are lucky." Laurent whispered, "If you rub it and promise to spend your wealth on worthy causes, you'll have a long and happy life. Normally can you touch things in the museum?"

"No," lisped a few, while the others shook their heads with exaggerated sincerity. Doubtless their teachers and guardians had told them to never put hands on anything inside a museum; Laurent wished he could let them touch the marble statues as they liked...

"Well, just for today since today is lucky, I'll let you touch one thing." There was an excited gasp of genuine surprise as he slid the gold coin back out into his hand and seemingly pulled it from the ear of the little girl closest to him. Her eyes were as wide as the coin.  _Sweet things, still believed in a magic Akielon coin that brought good fortune_. 

He passed it around to them, uncaring that the priceless artifact was rubbed for good luck between countless pudgy fingers. 

One small boy looked at it carefully with an artist's eye. He took in the geometric grooves around the ridges, the delicate bands of stars around the head of the person pictured. "Is this a god?"

"Yes," Laurent replied, happy for the question. It had a story involved, which he looked forward to telling. "Yes this is the ruler of the stars. Their lover was a god-prince who rescued them from death and hid them amongst the stars." He could not begin to answer whether the delicate etching was meant to be a man or a woman. Perhaps they were neither. Perhaps they were both. The story had not said. "Now they watch over us and make sure we do not touch or break anything inside the museum."

The children giggled and blushed as if they had been considering just such a thing before they scattered away from Laurent, whispering of magic tricks and gods and stars and lucky gold. Laurent felt warm and hopeful watching them...

They parted, surging around a man in a dark red suit who stood still in the crowd, and Laurent's good humor vanished. 

He felt cold and ill. He felt as trapped as a moth under a glass frame, icy cold pins spearing through his arms and chest and stomach. He could not breathe. 

_Of course he would come on the day when the museum was filled with children._

Laurent smoothed himself, tried to get his heartbeat under control, despite the fact that this man he despised had waltzed into one of the few places he felt calm and safe. He would not give his uncle the satisfaction of seeing him cower in fear. 

“Uncle.” He greeted coolly, refusing to offer his hand to be shaken.

“Laurent.” His voice was silk laced with razor blades, smooth but unbending. Every nerve in Laurent’s body fired hot and fast as alarms: _danger, danger_. “It’s been so long since I last paid you a visit.”

 _Not long enough_.

As a teenager he might have come up with a witty retort to agitate his uncle, to disparage him in front of the crowd and cause a scene that would bring some kind of retaliation in their endless war. But now…he was just tired. He was tired of fighting. “What do you want?”

His brusque tone must have bristled, because his Uncle’s eyes flashed, his fist clenched for the briefest moment. _Deep inside he braced for the blow_. “You—.”

“Laurent.”

Laurent felt the warmth before he saw the man in his peripheral.

Damianos looked imposing as hell in his security uniform. The black T-shirt strained against his crossed arms and his chunky boots gave him two more unnecessary inches of height. He was a one-man army, overtly fond of the Akielon Art Exhibit when on rounds.

His uncle looked up at Damianos, his expression moving from shock to a little fear to a soft disappointment, perhaps as if he wished he could have found Damianos earlier so that he might have menaced Laurent. All of these emotions, as swift as blinks, but Laurent was expert at catching them. 

 _Still sensitive to his every whim?_  His own voice mocked him. 

“And _you_ are?”

“My coworker.” Laurent explained with no favorable inflection in his voice. He would not soon forget what had happened to Jord… “We hired him on for the Gala.” Give as little information for him to work with.

“Damianos.” He introduced himself and Laurent was a little pleased to note that Damianos also sounded frosty and hostile. _Perhaps Uncle’s charm did not work on_ everyone…

Uncle plastered on a fake smile. “Ahh…You must be the one who broke my employee’s arm.”

Damianos thought back as though he was rifling through the long list of men whose arms he had broken before coming to a realization. His smile was nearly a snarl. “Ah yes. _Him_.” Laurent’s uncle narrowed his eyes at Damianos’ stilted language. “It could not be helped.”

“You can hardly blame him with Govart’s manners.” Laurent responded lightly. “He hardly makes himself endearing.” Perhaps it was the heat of Damianos’ skin or the sheer size of him like a physical barrier between him and his uncle, but he felt his old fire of rebellion heat up again in the center of his chest. It almost made him feel drugged. “You came to discuss his health?”

_Of course he hadn’t._

Laurent had retaliated. He had broken the rules of their détente and his uncle was here to remind him that what was left could be crushed with a world from that razor-silk tongue.

“Is it a crime to pay my nephew a visit?” He asked.

 _One low on the list of many_. “You need not play this game with me.” Laurent hissed and he felt a brief pinprick of warm touch on his knuckle. “Govart pried and my coworker defended. Perhaps if you want something done, you should come to me and see for yourself.”

Laurent ached to kill him.

The ache had started at fourteen and had grown into a white-hot consuming beast during his late teenage years. How many times had he imagined bloody teeth littering the concrete, a knife in the chest, a slow chokehold? Each murder fantasy was refreshing and as carefully revered as other young men held sexual fantasies. But his uncle never played fair.

_I’d be dead before he was cold on the ground._

Sometimes, in darker times, it was worth it. But he would not cause a scene in his museum. It was one of the places he held dearest.

His uncle shrugged, the fine cloth of his suit rustling. “You are right. Govart has a…a heavy hand, ill-suited for someone as _delicate_ as you.” Laurent thought of drowning him in the sacred fountain, maybe slamming his head on the marble sides for good measure. “I allowed you the self-defense classes because a city can often be dangerous. You needed a…distraction.”

 _He doesn’t want anyone to have his old things_ , the thought was insidious and sickening and Laurent blinked it back before he began to believe it.

“I’ll not have him bother you again in the future. We are past petty games and I too must focus on my own distractions.”

Laurent almost let his heated self speak.

 _Was it another orphanage? Maybe a school? What little_ pet _project are you funding this time_? He was almost afraid to ask; anything left in the path of this monster left some of their blood on his hands.

_He had not fought hard enough for it._

His uncle must have seen what he wanted, because he walked briskly to Laurent, briefly touching his shoulder before he passed. “I will see you soon. Stay alert, nephew. Damianos.”

And then he was gone, the only thing remaining a sense of unease and a feeling like maggots crawling on Laurent’s skin wherever he had been touched. Every time they interacted, he felt like he had to get his heart rate down.

“Forgive me if I am out of line, speaking of your blood relative,” Damianos said, his deep voice choked with something, “but I do not like that man.” It was refreshing really. Usually his uncle was able to charm or terrify most people, leaving them incapable of feeling distaste.

Laurent smiled a little. “I share your dislike. Surpass it even.”

Damianos shook his head so that his dark hair shimmered like the black marble of the fountain. His voice came out in a whisper so no little children would overhear. “I may have to kill him if we meet again. Surely the city is better without his presence…”

 _An ally_. The hope rose unrestrained in Laurent before he could stop himself. His laugh was shaky. “You are in the habit of killing men you dislike on second introduction?” _The imagery of Damianos lifting uncle above the floor by his neck_.

“I am the pr—the king of Akielos. I execute men who are cruel beyond reason.”

He blanched a little, as if he had given away a precious secret and Laurent wondered if perhaps he was simply very good at reading people. Someone so big and intimidating would not feel frightened easily. He was not bluffing either; Laurent did not know how he felt knowing the man beside him had actually killed another man before. _They had shared an apartment for two nights_.

“I notice that I am still alive.”

Damianos grinned down at him, his smile a thousand kilowatts. “You did not give me that brown drink a second time. And you tried to kill _me_ with a nail groomer.” Laurent snorted.

“It was a fruit knife.”

“And you gave away your position immediately.” Damianos said lightly without looking at Laurent. Laurent fell to his baiting, giving him a hard elbow in the side.

“You are no longer welcome in my house.”

Damianos gave an exaggerated look of betrayal.

“Or…a rematch this evening. Your choice.”

He could feel the immediate fire of competition blazing from the man next to him and smiled at his shoes before he walked away. He felt better. _Amazingly_ , he felt better.

 

_Damianos had not cared for the man in the red suit._

_He was elegant in the way he held himself: a man of power, distinguished in that way important men were in the late stages of middle age. He looked like a distant relative of Laurent's as well; the blonde in his graying hair a few shades darker, the blue of his eyes more cobalt._

_But Damianos could scarcely appreciate it when he saw the mire above the man's head._

_At first he thought it was black, which was a fine, noble color of it's own, but on second glance he saw it was a swirling miasma of other colors, similar to the poisonous sludge that seeped out of the earth in some places near the border of Patras._

_He had only seen such a halo on a man once before: a pirate captain who ravaged villages for the sheer joy of causing panic and murder. His acts were unspeakable and Damianos had never felt so vindicated in executing a man before. The color was the same._

_So dark so cunning so secretive, it seemed impossible for anyone to understand or come close to him. Damianos was not sure anyone would want to._

_Three other things helped cement his instantaneous distrust and dislike._

_When he had seen Laurent, spikes like daggers—all silver and green and violet—stabbed upwards in a distinctly cruel intent, though he smiled gently. In response, Laurent had blanched. His face has gone whiter, the gold of his joy retreating until he was nothing but a pale shadow of ice blue. Damianos had thought nothing could faze Laurent but the young man withered in front of this force._

_Damianos could have disliked him for that alone._

_But as some children ran past him, Damianos saw the careful, calculating blooms of color that he knew all too well. And he could have destroyed the man, same as the pirate, every trace of his foulness wiped from the earth._

_At least it had been worth it to see the pale, nervous blue fade into gold interspersed with blooms of pink joy. He wanted to see it stay. He watched for it carefully in the crowds to make sure the edges stayed in place._

_He disliked being far from Laurent's home, not being able to see if the fear had crept in. He disliked knowing that such a creature had its' eyes on the clever curator. Regardless of what the gods had sent him here for, he felt it would be something worthwhile to kill the man before he went back._

_Going back..._

_He thought of it. Though he felt a little cramped in Charls' cluttered apartment the idea of going back to the palace—his palace, his home, draped in black, had him feeling a little sick._

_He was not ready yet._

_He was not strong enough._

 


	5. 5. Don’t You Cry, Somebody’s Got You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> So we saw the Regent in the last chapter and I got just the reaction I expected. His color, by the way, is the color of crude oil (I kind of imagine him like Hexxus, if any of you all will get that reference). Now on to the next bit of discomfort.  
> I kind of miss writing my darker story (coughTouchYoucough) and I brought back a bit of the PTSD though I made it common for all of the people in the story who have been through this war. Lazar's in particular was kind of haunting to come up with. But unlike my past stories, I didn't want Damen directly involved this time. I think Laurent would want space.  
> Also, Bar Kyrina is based on Bar Atlas in Singapore, AKA the bar of my dreams.  
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos! I'm having so much fun writing and I hope you enjoy!

**5\. Don’t You Cry, Somebody’s Got You**

Laurent had, self-admittedly, never been the type for close friends. Even as a child he had much preferred the company of a good book or puzzle; he had, as a result, grown into an adult with such a sarcastic, dry wit often misconstrued as being bitchy, and exhaustion when it came to being sociable that he could count ‘close’ friends on one hand. Rarely had he ever invited someone to his home and now…he found he was doing so regularly. He barely had a choice in the matter.

He heard a gentle knock at his front door as soon as he had finished sautéing the mushrooms and wiped his hands on a dishcloth.

Damianos was bouncing in place outside and brightened when he saw Laurent. Luckily, he had not taken up the Veretian custom of kissing on the cheeks as greeting though Laurent sometimes felt a little dizzy when he thought the man would attempt it. He usually brought an aperitif or a small side dish to go along with their meal though he did not ever push Laurent to drink more than a single glass of wine.

He was very curious though and his insights and guesses often caught Laurent by surprise during their dinner conversation.

Over their veal escalope with mushrooms and a salad, conversation had inevitably turned to work and Damianos hit Laurent out of the blue with an innocent question about being a curator.

“How is it that one as young as you came to be a curator?”

Laurent swallowed with some difficulty. He disliked discussing the war and its’ effects simply because he felt it might destroy some of that innocence that was so rare to see on children, much less adults.

“No one else could compete with me,” Laurent admitted remembering the looks of bafflement on his Akielon classmates’ face as he rattled off his near encyclopedic knowledge of Akielon art and culture. “And there were no applicants with more experience. They…” he didn’t want to say it but Damianos was intent and curious, “Most of them died during the war.”

“Ah, I see.” Damianos responded after a moment’s pause. “It is truly a terrible loss then.”

An understatement. There had been big holes punched in generations and those Laurent’s age had been left to fill in the gaps. “I…yes.”

“And you did not choose Veretian art. May I ask why?”

Laurent smiled sadly as he pushed a tomato around on his plate. “It did not interest me as much. When I was younger I truly disliked Akielons and everything about Akielos,” he recalled with some fondness the bitterness had once cultivated for Akielos; he felt almost guilty telling Damianos that the reason he had begun studying about Akielos was so he could better understand the enemy. “I wished to learn about Akielos. And over time I…” His hatred had lessened over the years, assured in the fact that there was an Akielon version of himself out in the world hating Vere with the same poison; plus his enemy was so much closer, so much more tangible, “I came to see the beauty in it. That’s all.” _Liar_.

“You make the world more beautiful,” Damianos said, his compliment casual. “I cannot hold you in any higher esteem for it.”

That was another good thing about Damianos.

There were certain moments when Laurent was sure Damianos would ask him another question that made him think of the war and he would have to excuse himself. But Damianos would look at him, nod carefully and then go back to his dinner, content to leave the conversation as it was. He had done it so often now that Laurent no longer had to wonder. The relief came instantaneously.

After dinner they cleaned the plates, took a short break to let their food settle, changed into their exercise clothes and then made the fifteen-minute walk to the self-defense studio.

Halvik and Makedon had even begun to let him come to class for free simply because there was nothing quite like sparring with Damianos.

It was as if he was a wind god: powerful, unstoppable, and yet somehow quick and uncatchable in spite of his bulk. Attacking him head-on was like running into a brick wall, one would merely bounce off of him and the sting of ass hitting the floor was nothing in comparison to Damianos’ tender, encouraging smile as he helped his opponent to their feet.

Laurent was getting better though, after a month of practice.

Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose and his ass ached from landing on the mat so many times, but he watched Damianos carefully, looking for an opening in his defenses.

Damianos watched him, seemingly following his eyes as they darted around. _Left flank maybe? No, I tried for it last time and now it’s too obvious; he might be baiting with it. Could go for a leg sweep but he’s a wrestler, he’s in his element on the ground… If I could get behind him, then maybe—_

“Did you fall asleep?” Damianos inquired, smiling for all he knew that Laurent hated to be rushed while making decisions.

Laurent chose his moment and rolled so he was behind Damianos. His heart was in his throat as he saw his opening and leapt onto the sizable target to cheers from his audience. “Give me a fucking minute.” He whispered to Damianos as his forearms closed in a lock across the throat.

“One minute.” Damianos concurred, not sounding winded in the least.

Laurent tried to trip Damianos, tried to slide his legs out from under him but they were unbending as tree trunks. He kicked one a little in frustration and Damianos laughed. “Minute is up.”

Then Laurent felt strong hands yanking his arms free and he was flying through the air over Damianos’ head. The man had tossed him as if he weighed nothing at all and Laurent groaned as he landed flat on his back. Damianos smiled down at him, only slightly flushed from their battle. _Fucking showoff_ …

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Damianos asked with utter sincerity.

Laurent narrowed his eyes. “Who told you to say that?”

His question was answered from the sidelines as Lazar laughed to himself. He was so fond of teaching Damianos ‘modern’ phrases to be used for maximum discomfort if used in social situations.

Lazar and some of his fellow rum runners had decided that they quite liked living in the city and Laurent had promised to hire them on for the delicate moving work of the gala; no one else had such light touch with fragile items. But them being around meant Laurent had to deal with Lazar's wolfish sense of humor on a more regular basis. Though Lazar spent most of his days doing odd jobs in the city, he and Pallas had taken a liking to the self-defense classes and joined in on a regular basis. Pallas was currently half-lounging on Lazar's lap, his chest practically spilling out of his shirt. 

Damianos looked from Laurent to Pallas before helping Laurent to his feet.

"Pallas," he offered in Akielon that was becoming more modern by day, "a round?"

Pallas flushed with joy at the offer. Lazar slapped his ass as he got to his feet while Laurent received a sportsmanlike pat on the back from Damianos. 

Laurent accepted the water bottle from Kashel and sat next to Lazar and some of the other students to watch the spectacle. Lazar gave him an appreciative once over.

"You can sit here if you want." He offered, patting the lap that Pallas had just vacated. 

"Or we could spar next." Laurent responded thinking of the chokehold he could have Lazar in. 

He could not focus on any further witty retorts when Pallas and Damianos began their sparring match. Aside from Makedon, the young, beefy Akielon was the closest in physical size to Damianos and it was clear from his bouts with other students that his sweetness did not extend to the sparring ring. 

Pallas removed his shirt so his chest was bare, leaving Damianos less to hold onto, and Damianos delightedly shed his as well. Lazar whistled.

Pallas was one of the few who could attack Damianos head on and not bounce off as a result. When the two titans collided, it sent ripples down through their muscles all the way down their legs. Laurent was transfixed by it.

He inhaled sharply as, after a moment of grappling, Damianos made a stunning leg sweep and they both toppled to the floor.

Pallas rolled to the side, knowing that Damianos could get him into a hold as easily as breathing, waiting until the man tried to get to his knees. Then he launched himself back at Damianos so he was straddling the man’s chest. Lazar sighed in contentment.

“I love it when he’s on top…”

Laurent would have rolled his eyes if he hadn’t been intensely focused.

Pallas avoided Damianos’ arms, latching onto one and shifting off to the side so that he might put the man in an arm lock. Damianos smiled over at him and rolled so cunningly that suddenly Pallas was on his hands and knees and Damianos was behind him. They slid together, a thin sheen of sweat causing the rippling pistons of their muscles to glow. Laurent opened his mouth and closed it without saying anything though his lips were wet by the end of it.

Some of Pallas’ wavy hair slid out of his bun and fell in his face and Damianos cupped him gently before positioning himself and beginning his own lock.

“Fuck, why didn’t they do it nude?” Lazar moaned. Laurent was guiltily inclined to agree.

“Will you shut up, man?” Asked one fellow who seemed to disapprove of Lazar’s suggestions.

“Try and make me.” Lazar responded easily.

They were not able to see if the man would take Lazar up on his offer because Pallas made a last ditch attempt to fight Damianos off of him. His massive arms flexed with exertion and Damianos gritted his teeth from keeping him still. He adjusted his hold and Pallas pitched forward, his face pressed down hard against the mat. Damianos had his arms and legs wrapped in a vice around Pallas’ body and judging by the bulging of his arms, shoulders, and back nothing short of yielding or death would have Pallas out of that grip. Even so, Laurent saw Pallas test it once more for good measure.

Damianos murmured something and Pallas gave a breathy laugh, “Got it, got it. I yield.”

Damianos obliged immediately, albeit slowly so that Pallas did not crash to the floor and they embraced to the chorus of cheers from their captivated audience. Laurent noted with twisted lips that Lazar was sporting eyes glazed with desire and a thunderous erection.

Even Halvik looked approving and Laurent recalled that Vaskian women had an…appreciation for bulky men.

"Fantastic bout for the both of you!" Makedon said slapping them both on the shoulders. Pallas beamed up at him and Laurent wondered if the young man still had a live father. "I will handle the first round when we go out tonight."

There was a cheer that went around at the exclamation and normally Laurent would balk.

He, of course, always declined to attend, his awkwardness during social interactions combining fiercely with his dislike of alcohol. Damianos had also been in the habit of refusing as he followed Laurent for the proper social cues, but the last time they had gone to the pub after class Damianos had opted to join after some pressure from Pallas and Lazar. He had come into work the next day looking positively delighted and Laurent knew it was going to be another line of offense he would have to deal with. 

Sure enough, Damianos was looking at him with distinct excitement, joy at the very idea that they might share a drink with each other, with friends. Laurent thought of the cheap wine Jord was so proud to share with him and…and his mouth became overtly dry and bitter. 

"Laurent,"  _gods, but his voice was so deep_. 

When he saw Laurent look up at him, Damianos smiled in anticipation of a positive response and Laurent suddenly could not swallow.

"You want me to come along with you, I suppose." He stated in hushed tones. 

"You do not have to." Damianos responded looking at Laurent's face and the top of his head, "But things are hollow when you are absent." 

 _Liar_. 

"We'll go to Bar Kyrina." Makedon's exuberance cut through their quiet exchange, "Damianos?" He grinned as Damianos nodded in affirmation and his expression became more hesitant, "Laurent?" He had no reason to be hopeful; Laurent had declined his invitation every time. 

But Damianos' careful compliment and Makedon's surprising interruption had startled him. He made a split-second decision and decided to worry about the consequences later. "Yes, I'm coming."

He had chosen the exact wrong moment to announce his intent. It had been one of those rare lulls in conversation and suddenly everyone had heard that frigid, unfriendly Laurent was, for the first fucking time, going to join them on one of their debauched after class bonding events. He swore he could have heard a fucking pin drop on the mats. 

Makedon appeared flabbergasted, his mouth semi-open in surprise as he struggled for the words. “I—ah…yes! Erm, very good—I…yes.”

Everyone else was just as shocked, save for Damianos who turned to him in delight. “Really? You will come?”

“Did I stutter?” Laurent asked, pretending solemnity. Damianos gazed knowingly and Laurent cracked a little, his mouth turning up at the edges. “Do not expect me to cart you to Charls’.” Damianos bumped him gently as he passed and Laurent stumbled a little.

Laurent did not like to flatter himself but he had never seen so many people from the self-defense classes attend the drinking sessions before and he wondered if the pack was due to his presence.

Bar Kyrina was one of the gems of a bar Laurent had no idea existed so close by.

The outside was simple dark mahogany with ‘Bar Kyrina’ carved above the door in gold leaf. He was keen to like it for its’ simple, unobtrusive exterior but he liked it even more when they went inside.

It was too classy for the likes of most of the people traipsing through.

The lighting was soft and yellow, the ceilings surprisingly high, and Laurent felt more at ease to see that the shelving behind the bar was fitted like old Veretian library shelving. There were more crystal cut decanters and glittering bottles than a single man could feasibly sample in a single night and—as they were given red leather cocktail menus—Laurent was pleased to note, the prices were not unreasonable and the names of the drinks were not utterly ridiculous.

They were shown to the longest table in the place and Laurent noticed a small scuffle as they went to be seated. Damianos blocked off a chair next to Kashel so he and Laurent could sit and order in relative peace.

Laurent eyed the list of dark liquors with a shudder, the taste of them like bile in the back of his throat, and moved exclusively to the wines and clear liquors.

“Crystal Gin and Tonic…Hotel Juniper…The Sweet Spot…Yseult Campari…Tosca Red…” Laurent read through the names of the exotic drinks if only to savor the sound of them on his tongue.

Damianos looked at him. “You will attempt to drink them all? I will not carry you home.”

“I can hold my liquor, unlike you apparently.” He interrupted Damianos before he could protest. “And what will you drink?”

“Griva, neat.” Damianos said without hesitation. _Calm_ _down_ , Laurent thought half to Damianos and half to himself.

He decided on the simple Crystal Gin and Tonic, the waitress promising that the glass made of ice would make it taste smooth as liquid diamond as she unabashedly stared at Damianos’ chest. Lazar politely inquired for the ‘filthiest bottle of bourbon on hand’ for himself and Pallas to split while Makedon also ordered a glass of griva.

“Do you drink griva Laurent?” Makedon asked as if he was asking something illegal.

Laurent recalled the licorice flavor of it and knew he would drink an entire bottle of it on principle. “Like water.” He said flippantly and he could practically feel everyone at the table shiver at the intense desire to see him drink griva and melt down the total poise he held himself in.

They did not have to wait long.

His drink, arguably one of the easier ones to make, arrived at the first round along with the neat griva and Lazar’s dusky bourbon. Laurent marveled at the glass his drink was served in: the clear-cut facets of the steaming ice causing the liquor to shimmer like a crystal.

He sipped it, savoring the shallow notes of citrus, before turning to see if Damianos was enjoying himself as well. His dark lips were wet with griva as he grinned at Laurent.

“Is it good?”

“Very.” Damianos responded, taking another sip. “They are fond of it in Sicyon and I lost several nights to it as a younger man. I will not lose this one though.” He was crimson with the nights he did remember.

Laurent sipped his drink to hide his smile, his lips sticking to the ice rim.

The others at the table grew a little rowdier as the waitress emerged from behind the bar with the second platter of cocktails.

She did not mean to do it. Nobody ever meant to do it.

It could be triggered at the smallest things; Jord had once needed a half hour of calm silence after a tire had popped loudly on the street next to him, Lazar had once abandoned a half-finished project for the entire day after one of his workers accidentally burnt some of his hair and the smell lingered. Every person he had known to survive the war had some things that would push them over the edge. 

And the server couldn't have known that when she dropped the glasses and they shattered at her feet that Laurent would have such a visceral reaction to it. _His mother's plates, stamped with little golden stars around the borders and a circle of deep blue in the centers, had shattered on the floor. Their house had shuddered like it was alive and Laurent remembered the racing heartbeat from his mother as she cradled him in the bathtub._

_"We'll be fine, we'll be fine." She had whispered to him, kissing his forehead frantically. But he heard her terror pumping beneath the skin. Fuck, he could smell the chemicals from outside as the plates shattered in the next room._

By the grace of the gods, he had enough strength to set down his drink, stand slowly, and move to the bathrooms of the bar without appearing panicked. He still had some control. 

They were empty, quiet, elegant; the sinks ran like soft waterfalls into the dark basins below and Laurent swiped them all on in hopes that the water would rush louder than the exploding china. He yanked open the heavy wooden door of the first stall and retreated inside to catch his breath. 

It was not his mother's heartbeat, it was his own. 

 _Breathe, fucker breathe. You've been through worse_. He was stronger than this, but while no one could see him, he allowed himself the small respite of putting his head in his hands and leaning it against the cool wood. Rather than remembering the destruction and the shards, Laurent thought of the whole plate, how it felt in his hands. They were heavy and creamy smooth. The stars were inlaid with real gold and caught the light when he turned the disc to and fro. The bottoms were stamped with a curly name and date from years long past.

His mother had never held those fine things out of his chubby reach but encouraged him to feel them gently and reverently.

"Feel it, fairest." She had whispered. "Passed down for generations. You can feel our history in it. All of Vere."  _Blue, gold and white_.

Maybe that was another reason he had become a curator. He had liked to feel the history in things. 

The colors helped with the water.

He imagined the deep blue in time with the rushing water, hoping he had not been gone long enough so as to warrant notice. His heart rate slowed and the crescendo of shatters faded into a soft tinkling; he relinquished the death grip he had taken on his hair.

He had spent only four minutes coming down from it and was pleased to see he was getting faster at pushing the memories back. Someday he promised himself that he would never startle again.

Some cold water on the back of his neck would do him good and he took a steadying breath before emerging from the safety of the stall.

There was someone standing silently by sink and Laurent nearly fell back through the stall door and into the toilet from surprise. He gripped the top of the stall door to keep from falling and let annoyance take over from shock. “What the _fuck_ Damianos?”

He smiled back at Laurent, his hands turning slowly under the warm flow of water.

“Laurent.”

Even just hearing his name rooted him securely in the present and he pushed his annoyance aside to go get some water himself. His first handful he swallowed and the second he poured down the back of his neck. Damianos did not even bat an eyelash.

The sink basin was black and Laurent hated the silence. “Damianos, may I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why is it unlucky to have an empty fountain?” He recalled that Pallas had told him such a thing and was only reminded when he saw the slick black of the fine sinks in front of him.

Damianos paused for a moment before he could come up with a simple explanation in High Veretian. “If the fountains are dry then there is no water. And with no water, the harvest will be poor, people cannot bathe and will get sick. It is a bad omen to see a fountain with no water.”

Laurent nodded, pleased that he had an answer to a mystery lost to time or language barrier.

“May I ask you a question?”

Out of habit, Laurent was already formulating a cold lie; _cannot show weakness_. “Go on.”

“Do you feel better now?” He said so with such certainty, Laurent looked at him with suspicion. Damianos rushed to explain, his hands motioning gently to Laurent’s head. “Your—I do not know how to explain—you were dark with it but it was not observed by anyone else. I thought…I thought you might not like to be disturbed.” He shook his head and fell silent, as if he had given away a great secret.

“Thank you.” Laurent replied.

Damianos was more perceptive than he had realized but at least he had not tried to intrude or pry. At least he had kept people away. _Good luck comes when the water does_.

 

Laurent was up late that night still disquieted from the earlier assault on his senses. He had long since memorized the flat surface of his ceiling and had no burning desire to do any work. He rolled over in bed and tried to keep himself from thinking on the past.

The memory of Pallas and Damianos slick and entwined on the mats helped to sway his attention but his hips shifted as an unfortunate side effect. Lazar would have commended him on such a solution.

 _Twenty three years old and still a virgin_ , the dark part of his mind mocked him. _Or just frigid?_

He drowned it out with the memory of dark skin oiled with sweat, laughing from the good exercise. What would it be like if they were naked as the wrestlers in his exhibit? What would it be like if he was pressed between them? His skin was dry now but it would be slicked quickly from being held so close.

‘Laurent,’ he heard his name being said as if it was precious and actually grasped himself through his clothes.

The effect was instantaneous.

He felt as though someone was watching him. Thousands watching and waiting with that slavering anticipation of intruding on the private intimacies of a young man. He knew the people would not be there if he turned on the lights but he could feel the eyes on his skin as surely as if there was an audience sitting in his room watching him twist with the heat.

He pulled his hand away and crossed his legs tight at the thighs.

It would be a sleepless night then.

 

_Damianos was getting better with the time he had found himself in._

_Sometimes at night the loneliness was crippling and sometimes he felt emotions so deep and raw, he wished he could see his colors so he could better understand his own heart. But those had been the only ones that had eluded him._

_At least his days were filled with constant new joys._

_He had always been the type to easily inspire good humor in others. He liked the easy-going nature of the rum runners, so similar to the people of Isthima in his time. So especially welcoming were Lazar and Pallas who invited him after hours to any number of Patran hookah lounges, cheap restaurants, and trips where a group of merry souls merely sat on the thick sidewalks above the river to eat bread and cheese and drink wine before inevitably pissing in the river. These were activities he would never have indulged in back in his time._

_The crown prince was kind but remote to others. It was a symptom of his noble birth that he had to keep himself elevated above the common man. Certainly he would never have eaten some of the things he had come to like here, although he still could not get used to the poor wine they selected amongst the cheapest bottles. When Lazar had invited him back to the bed he shared with Pallas, Damianos declined gently. Once had been enough to give him a taste of something familiar, to keep him sane._

_But when they referred to him as a friend and slapped him on the back as they swayed on their way home, he felt happy, despite the strange surroundings._

_Charls too had been nothing less than a wonderful and accommodating host. And his wine selection was more to Damianos' taste._

_And Laurent could cause him to blaze and settle by turns._

_He was becoming familiar with the layout of the museum now and he enjoyed walking through it to see what had survived and what would be in style for the next ten, twenty years. But he always took his time and made extra rounds in the Akielon Art Exhibit to interact with Laurent. Everyone regarded him with varying degrees of fear, respect, and desire—save the children who came to visit—but Damianos saw that their fear, at least, was misplaced._

_Laurent could be sharp at times when he was nervous, but he simply preferred to be in quiet places with his thoughts as company; he lost himself in his work, drowning out the world around him as he cleaned off pieces dragged from storage, nearly dropping them when he noticed Damianos had joined him. When Damianos teased him, Laurent would shoot right back with cutting, dry wit. Sometimes his humor was ornery and he giggled behind his hand like a wicked boy as Damianos did not notice the large clump of sawdust that had be thrown at his hair._

_He liked going to Laurent's quiet apartment to relax before their sparring lessons._

_He liked watching the bloom of rose and gold and faint blue as Laurent watched a film or ate foods that he liked._

_He liked ignoring the colors in favor of watching Laurent's slightly mismatched blue eyes as they sparred. The eyes were quick, serpentine in their appraisal of attack. Never had he fought someone so slippery and determined._

_He liked to think he understood a little more than what other people did. Which was why he refused to make a scene when he saw the aura disappear entirely before being replaced with quiet shattering of the colors in firework blasts of dark blue, white, and gold. He kept the watch silently, knowing no man would want to be disturbed in such a state and did not pry past asking Laurent if he was feeling better. He kept his eyes down, refusing to look above Laurent's head out of courtesy._

_He remembered from childhood that most people did not care for him knowing._

_When he thought of 'home' now, he felt it was a lonely concept. Those expectations would not allow him the pleasures of guarding the beautiful halls of the Kingsmeet—he wondered briefly if it still stood—would frown on him making friends with smugglers and eating with them by the sea. He could not tease someone as easily as he did with Laurent. It was loneliness of another kind, one tinged with a faint bit of dread._


	6. 6. I Want to Hold You When I’m Not Supposed To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys bit of a late update today due to work but I'm here now and I've got the update for you!  
> Poor Damen is having a rough time. For anyone else who has lived overseas, you can probably empathize with him; I know I certainly did. Despite all the kind people and new experiences, there will always be days when you feel sad and lost and useless in a new place. Damen will recover quickly, with more hugs!  
> Also a lot of you have been wondering what has happened to Jord: this chapter has some new hints! ;)  
> Also the nickname 'kakotheres' means 'unequipped to withstand the summer heat'. Haha roast him Damen!  
> Enjoy!

**6\. I Want to Hold You When I’m Not Supposed To**

It happened quite suddenly on one of the evenings when Laurent was planning his days off.

Up until quite recently he had not cared for having two days off a week. He liked to rationalize it to a concerned Charls that he was simply a workaholic and that any other staff would not measure up to his stringent expectations. If he was being truthful with himself, he would admit that his time spent in the museum was one of the few things that brought him any measure of happiness and when he was alone in his apartment for long periods of time he thought he might rediscover some deep seated horror he had pushed far back in his mind. 

But now...

Two and a half weeks into his employment, Damianos had been overjoyed to see that they shared similar days off and he asked if Laurent would show him around the city. He seemed so delighted by the very prospect of spending time together that Laurent cancelled his request for overtime and begin planning a trip for the weekend. 

Damianos had now completely adapted to traveling by the metro and was waiting outside Laurent's apartment early the next day, bouncing with energy. And Laurent had surprisingly had a good time.

They had gone to buy breakfast at the 'Orange and Lily' before taking their purchases to the Royal Botanical Gardens to eat. The indoor greenhouse of the gardens were having their annual butterfly expo and Laurent nearly dropped his phone in his haste to take pictures of Damianos' head crowned in a diadem of butterflies. Damianos admired the photos--he was annoyingly photogenic--and insisted on holding onto the phone for the rest of their walk through the gardens so that he too could practice taking pictures.

From there they had gone to the Onyx Avenues where the finest craftsmen in New Artes gathered in the labyrinthine streets to set up their small boutiques and open air markets. Watching him look through the products available, Laurent could begin to believe a little more that Damianos was royalty, simply judging by the way he disdained sub-par weaves and cheaper knock-offs with a discerning eye. He seemed much fonder of farmer's bazaar underneath their tents of silk where he purchased a variety of fruits and two bottles of homemade wine flavored with lemon and orange. 

They ate and drank his purchases by the edge of the river before going their separate ways and Laurent, a little tipsy from the wine, looked through his phone to find pictures of himself. Smiling and covered in butterflies, drinking deep from the bottle of wine, holding produce or fine cloth between his hands, he looked like another person entirely. _Someone happy_... 

But since then he and Damianos had spent a fair amount of their shared weekends together. They had kayaked on the river and Laurent now used every opportunity to remind Damianos that his giant frame had nearly sunk the boat. Damianos gave as good as he got reminding Laurent of the time when they had gone to the Peace Memorial and one old woman whom he had helped up the stairs thanked him as a 'very sweet young lady'. Now whenever Laurent did any small favor around the museum within Damianos' eyesight, Damianos would invariably thank him as a 'sweet young lady'. 

 _He had also not, to Laurent’s knowledge, fucked anyone else since the one time with Lazar and Pallas_ …

In any case, he was as close to a friend as any Laurent had and he had invited Damianos over for dinner on a Monday evening so that they could plan their next weekend excursion. 

Damianos had been looking through Laurent's extensive bookshelves, flipping through the well-worn pages with a look of consternation as Laurent looked for possible outings on his tablet. He did not see when the photograph fluttered down from between the pages and Damianos picked it up off the floor.

He had shuffled back to the couch and inspected the photo thoroughly before Laurent even noticed that he held something in his hands.

“Perhaps we could camp by the seasi—.” He glanced over and felt his stomach turn to ice when he recognized the photo.

“Forgive me,” Damianos rushed as he noticed how Laurent had frozen in response, “I had no idea what this…small painting was and I wished to inspect it. If you would like it back…” Laurent was too horrified to even accept it and Damianos scanned again. “It is you!” His surprise seemed boundless.

Laurent knew the ‘small painting’ intimately.

He was there in the photograph: eighteen, green as a shoot, and blazing with determination. Laurent could see it in the stance of his body, the set of his mouth, the blazing deep in his eyes, even his clothes seemed taught with his energy. It showed a young man angry and sharp at the world, hell-bent on reclaiming what was his, no matter the cost.

Jord was standing next to him, casual and common next Laurent’s intensity. He had a tired, world-weary look about him but Laurent remembered fondly on his loyalty and steady counsel. He also had invaluable memories of Auguste that he had been more than willing to share.

_He had also gone whiter than snow when he had seen what was done to men who followed Laurent._

“It _is_ me.” He managed to choke out. “When I was younger of course.”

Damianos smiled. “And the other with you?”

‘ _I’m sorry Jord,_ ’ he tasted the familiar words on his tongue.

“That man was my brother’s dear friend before and during the war. He and I reconnected after the war when I was fifteen. But we are…no longer close.” He could not tell Damianos any more because he thought he might be physically ill from the memory.

He could still hear Aimeric’s shrill scream and the look of deep and terrible pain on Jord’s face as they waited in the lobby of the hospital.

_How could he be so cruel as to ask Jord to continue in his campaign? He had asked for too much. He would try to do the rest on his own._

“I cut off all contact.” Laurent admitted the truth. “After his lover was injured due to my…mistake.”

He had been too much of a coward to face them again. Especially after he had given up on his fight against his Uncle. How could he face them after they had been utterly destroyed for nothing? The thought had him feeling slightly dizzy though he held himself rigid to compensate.

Damianos looked at him carefully, scanning his expression. “You—if you dislike, you need not say more.” Laurent relaxed immediately, the breath he released causing him to physically uncoil.

“I _know_.” He said sharply and then corrected himself to make his tone softer. “I know.”

“He is probably worried about you.” Damianos said, turning his piercing dark eyes aside to look at the photograph again. “If you hold him so close to heart then I am sure,” his expression took on a surprising tint of something like envy, “I am sure he wonders about your fate.”

Laurent rocked his head back so he could stare at the ceiling. “There is also a chance he never wants to see me again. I can have that effect on people.”

“Not on me.” Damianos replied immediately, handing him back the photograph.

Laurent looked down at the photo to see Jord smiling up at him. He had almost forgotten how the man never showed his teeth when he smiled or how he had a persistent five o’ clock shadow no matter how often he shaved. He found that he did miss Jord’s constancy…

“I would wish to see you again.” Damianos said honestly.

Laurent’s breath was shaky as he inhaled and looked again at the photo. His eyes were blazing in it, filled with life and determination. He had often contemplated burning it or tearing it pieces, but now—as before—he simply took it to tuck back between the pages of his book.

“Because you like the pain?” He kept his tone dry as he joked.

Damianos bumped him with his shoulder. “Because you are a menace and I must protect this city from you.”

Laurent pushed him back. He was fighting back a smile.

 

Laurent could not remember the last time he had been so pleased.

He touched the velvety chocolaty colored snout and felt the large, triangular head push into his hand and a soft blast of air against his forearm. It had been so long since he had last gone horseback riding and he had been so happy when he and Damianos had found a stable on the outskirts of the city sprawl.

The stable in question rented out their mounts as well as camping gear so that people from the city could ride to the old ruins of Marlas and camp under the stars.

His only issue with the arrangement was that he could not possibly decide between all of the beautiful horses available. He had spent at least half an hour carefully regarding each horse’s temperament.

This one, deep brown with matching eyes and a chocolate sweet temperament, reminded Laurent of his pet horse from childhood. They had kept her at the summer home in Acquitart and Laurent realized he had never known her fate after hearing what had happened at Acquitart. _He had been…_

He felt a hand on his shoulder shaking him free of the burning memories and saw Damianos smiling down at him. “Do you wish to sleep in the stables instead?”

“I would consider it.” Laurent said as the horse sniffed his hair for hay. “Depending on who is better company.” Damianos gave him a long look and then patted the next of his own horse. It was a big girl, one of the only ones that could accommodate his frame, with a beautiful dappled gray coat and creamy white mane.

“ _Kakotheres_ ,” He said fondly, “I look forward to seeing whether or not you are an elegant rider.”

Laurent did not care for the new nickname as he did not know the word and it sounded like he was being teased. “I would wager breakfast that I am the better horseman.”

“Select a horse and see it done.” Damianos replied, looking delighted at the idea of competition.

Laurent did end up selecting the sweet brown horse and felt a rise of pride when his hands remembered the way to tighten the saddle and attach his bags to the saddle. He hoisted himself up and settled into the leather with the comfort of a man who had spent a lot of time in the saddle. When he was younger, riding horses was one of the few things that could tear him away from books.

“How is it?” Damianos asked, already bringing his horse to a lively trot.

“Is this what it feels like to be as tall as you are?” Laurent asked and brought his horse to the same pace.

They set off in the lovely autumn afternoon through the calm forests outside of the ruins. The leaves were turning yellow, causing the entire area to glow golden and Damianos looked around in excitement, happy to be back on a horse in the relative peace outside the city. Laurent found it lovely too, the thin, bony trees with peeling white bark and the soft rustle of the wind through the leaves, but he wondered if Damianos could sense the unnatural stillness. There were ghosts in these serene forests…

Damianos kept conversation to a minimum, as if listening for bandits in the trees, and Laurent did not bother to correct his behavior.

He wondered if Auguste had traipsed through these very same woods.

The ruins of Marlas rose quite suddenly from the forest. A clearing of yellow-green grasses that stretched near endlessly to the south, to Akielos, interrupted by the stately white stone ruins. The ruins were the huge remainders of a fort and a surrounding city. At least the stones were no longer blackened from fire and fury, the rain and elements having long washed the soot scars away.

Damianos pulled his horse up short and it nickered in annoyance over the hasty movement. He seemed not to notice, breathing a little hard as he surveyed what must have been a beautiful bustling fort in his time.

“This is Marlas?”

“Yes.”

“Wh-what…has happened to it?”

Laurent wondered if coming here had been a mistake, hearing the concern and regret in Damianos’ voice. “You’ll see when we get there.”

Damianos was quiet during their ride into the ruins, filled with either awe or terror over what the city had become. The ruins were still too young to be completely overtaken by vegetation, but the grasses had grown to ankle height and wildflowers had begun to burst through some of the cracked stones in tiny violet and red fireworks. 

The ruins were so extensive that they were able to find a giant area unpopulated by any other visitors on horseback or otherwise. Their horses they allowed to graze peaceably as they went to go explore.

Some parts had been razed to the ground, simply rubble now but other stubborn walls and stairs had stood the onslaught. Damianos ran his hands over the stones and remaining plaster, his fingers flinching over the indentations where a spray of bullets had ruined the façade. Laurent wondered if he could feel the murderous intent in those scars. 

"What has happened?" Damianos asked again.

"You know there was a war." Laurent saw a shell casing blackened with age between one of the cracks in the stone streets. "The ancient fort and city were evacuated and...destroyed."

"Who was--did the Veretians or the--my people make the first advancements?"

"It hardly matters." Laurent said noncommittally. It had been late in the war, his father and brother were gone and his mother had been getting sicker and sicker. He had been so consumed with his own survival there was no use in discovering the details of what had happened to the border city. "Both of them did it. The further north you travel they will say the Akielons instigated; the further south you will find the opposite the truth. In any case," he ran his hands over a name that someone had etched into the side of a wall, "the result is the same." 

Their conversation was equally grim as they continued their walk, Damianos particularly taking an interest in ducking into the enormous flat squares where houses had once stood as if he recognized the place. "So...in Arles...the people there would dislike me."

_The understatement of the century._

In the north of Vere where some were still zealous and bitter, anyone of Akielon descent wisely lied about their lineage to prevent people from refusing to rent them apartments, support their businesses, or interact with them in any way; the southern Akielons were a little more straightforward in their approach, preferring to kick the shit out of any uppity Veretians close at hand. The animosity was still very much alive. 

"Depends on the person." He shrugged. "I am from the north and I bear you no ill will. Charls is as well. My mother liked most people. My brother was a good man who enjoyed the friendship of good men so he would like you. My father..." Laurent paused. He knew his father would have hated him even being in the same room as Pallas, Makedon, and Damianos, much less making friends with them. 

Damianos nodded sagely before speaking in Akielon, his words peppered with modern slang Laurent struggled to understand; _how had he learned so quickly_? Damianos courteously switched back. "I think I might have been able to win him over."

“Perhaps you could have…”As they walked to part of the remaining walls of the fort, Laurent’s love of history took over. “How old was the city during your time.”

Damianos thought for a moment. “A hundred at least. It was built from my memory for Vere and Akielos to defend against a horde of Vaskian raiders.”

Laurent made quick calculations.

He had tried to find any mention of Damianos throughout the vast history of Akielos, but there were so many fucking people with the same name and sometimes there was only a sentence or two of information. Was he Damianos the Great? Damianos the Tall? Was his country at war? Was there slavery? He almost felt afraid to ask in case whatever powers that brought him decided to yank him back.

“Was it beautiful in your time? I was never able to visit when it was…whole.”

Damianos smiled at him. “Yes, it is beautiful.”

Laurent at least felt comforted by that. “I wish…I wish I could see it. As it was.”

“I am sure your museum would rejoice.”

Laurent pushed him a little for his teasing but he was glad Damianos did not allow him to wallow in what could never be.

Before sunset could begin, the two of them wandered back to camp to clear the place for a fire pit and set up their bedrolls for the evening. Laurent thought a king would surely disdain the food cooked over a campfire but Damianos accepted it without complaint.

“I was trained as a soldier during my youth. You become used to simple fare.”

“You were a soldier?” Laurent felt a bit of distaste, never having gotten over his childhood distrust of Akielon soldiers.

"Ah you need not worry." Damianos amended immediately. "Akielos is at peace during my time. Most battles I have seen were between myself and pirates or Vaskian raiders."

"Where did it go wrong, I wonder..." Laurent murmured to himself. 

Damianos stayed thoughtful for another moment, watching the sky deepen to a royal violet, and then seemed unable to help himself.

"I know this will burden my heart but...if I do not ask, I will have no peace in this place."

Laurent felt his heart sink a little. 

"What has happened to the other cities? Arles, Ios, Fortaine, Lentos...what has become of them since this is the remainder of Marlas?"

The name of every city sliced at him twice. Once because he was a curator and the sweeping destruction of art and history and culture was abhorrent to him. Twice because some of the places held the sweetest memories of his childhood, a fragile thing that had been destroyed as easily as the walls and statues and ceramics. He needed a few steadying breaths before he could face the molten warmth of Damianos' eyes. 

The aftermath would destroy something else, it seemed. 

In a tone devoid of emotion to keep himself from falling to pieces, Laurent spoke of each city's fate.  _Three-fourths of Acquitart had been burned to the ground. Fortaine was a skeleton of a city. Lentos had been wiped off the map. Arles and Ios were pockmarked with districts that had been destroyed. Somehow Chastillion had survived relatively unscathed but Laurent would never return there_. 

After each explanation, Damianos seemed to wilt further and further until his head was almost touching his knees. Laurent knew the feeling. He remembered the day he had gone back to Arles and had nearly collapsed on the streets. The hollowed out ghost of the city matched him and he swore he would not go back, no matter how his heart ached for home. 

"So it is too late then?" Damianos said and his voice was dark with feeling. "It cannot be fixed?"

“You were not meant to—you cannot change this.” Laurent said, desperately wishing the opposite was true.

Damianos sat up suddenly, his wavy, dark hair falling in his face to obscure his expression. Even without seeing his face, Laurent could tell he was obviously distraught.

“It has already been destroyed. How am I to…” he had to pause for a moment to compose himself, “How am I to help if…if everything has already been destroyed? I…I am…”

Laurent watched him carefully.

The man was a king and was used to putting on a face of calm assurance. It must have been truly humbling for him to admit that he felt lost and helpless. But Laurent could understand those feelings. _You are somewhat of an expert on being alone_.

He reached out a hand, clenching his fist for a moment before placing it on Damianos’ massive shoulder. He had never been particularly skilled at comforting others but he supposed just him standing by would be sufficient.

At the moment of Laurent's touch, Damianos flinched away and bolted to his feet, stalking off through the dark of the ruins. Laurent's fingers were warm and tingled from touching his bare skin and it took him a moment to recover himself. He was alone in the ruins.

At first he considered letting Damianos be. The man was clearly upset and Laurent was not exactly skilled at making people feel at ease. If it were him, he would want space. But Damianos was in fact the exact opposite of him: enthusiastic where Laurent was tempered, impulsive where Laurent was cautious, open where he was aloof, hot where he was cold. He might need someone to at least stay by his side in his confusion.

Laurent got to his feet and began to jog through the ruins.

As he ran, he recalled the last time he had seen his father. He had been terrified of the man, always so sober and pragmatic but fiercely patriotic. His cheeks had been red with indignation as Laurent had pleaded for him not to go to war with Auguste.

"We are the figureheads of Vere and have been for generations. It would be an outrage, a show of faithlessness to this country if we did not also do our duty. Stop your wailing and be a man!" Laurent had been nine at the time, so shocked that his tears ceased in a single breath. It was the beginning of the end of his innocence.

His father had left the next morning without telling Laurent goodbye and he had never seen the man again. 

 _Where the fuck was Damianos_?

He found the man sitting on what might have once been the ramparts of the city walls. He was staring out at the ruins with the look of a man who was utterly lost. When Laurent approached he seemed surprised.

"I...I did not think you would follow me."

"Are you unhappy to see me here?" Laurent asked, trying to disguise the fact that he was winded from running. He sat across from Damianos, tossing his legs over the edge of the wall.

"No, no I am not."

They sat in silence for a moment, looking back to the stars and the moon. 

The silence began to press on Laurent and he wondered if he had made a mistake in coming after the man. "It's strange when you don't speak."

"You are here to carry a conversation?" Though it sounded teasing, there was an edge of pain to it and Laurent struggled not to be sharp in return.

"I...I am just...here." Damianos turned to look at him carefully. "I can leave if you wish."

"No. Please stay." 

He sounded genuine now and Laurent settled back in. It would be the waiting game then. He took in his surroundings, determined not to make them eerie. The wind was soft, it was serene, and it was a place where he did not have to look for the monster that haunted him in the city. Damianos was formulating an explanation that came in time. 

"I thought I could fix what had been done."

Laurent felt a swift, sharp pain in his chest as he shook his head. "You cannot. It is done."

"What shall I do? I feel—if I cannot change anything in this world how can I rule? How can I be a good king if this is beyond me? It seems beyond my control and I…” If he were a weaker man, he might have cried then over the feeling of helplessness, but he was a king so he merely clutched the front of his shirt and attempted to fight back the pain. “I wish I could know…how to help…”

He slumped forward then, all the fight seemingly going out of him and Laurent panicked a little.

It seemed hypocritical but he could not bear to watch Damianos give up.

Only two people had ever attempted to comfort him and they had done so in the same way. _He could smell his mother’s rose-scented perfume and feel the scratching of Auguste’s beard on his cheek. ‘Fairest, let me hold you.’_

Though he found it a little awkward, he moved closer so that he could put arms around Damianos in the stiffest hug imaginable. Damianos tensed in response and Laurent nearly let him go.

But then the giant in his arms relaxed, his head resting heavy on Laurent’s collarbone. He did not feel the warm wetness of tears soaking through his shirt but he patted the wide expanse of Damianos’ back for comfort. _Gods, but he was so warm_ …

Damianos began to relax, his heat seeping into Laurent’s body; he felt like the Akielon youth from legend who had played his harp so well that the king of the gods had fallen asleep in his arms. He decided not to mention this sentiment until Damianos felt better.

“This is…nice.” Damianos murmured and Laurent felt the warmth of his breath through his shirt.

“Is it?”

“No one…no one has embraced me since I was a boy.” Damianos admitted, turning his head so he could rest it on Laurent’s shoulder. Laurent deliberately rubbed high up on Damianos’ back so he could feel the ends of that silken black hair.

“Really?”

“It would be unseemly for the king to be so informal with someone below him.”

“Everyone is below you, you fucking giant.” Laurent retorted and felt Damianos shudder a bit with laughter. “It is ok…I suppose. I too have not been embraced in…a long time.” He recalled the last time someone had hugged him and he felt the pain like a spear of ice through Damianos’ warmth.

_He had held her as if he could physically hold her in this world. The hug had gone cold and her arms had slipped away from him._

Long, warm arms wrapped around his waist and squeezed for a moment, jerking Laurent out of his sorrowful reveries. Damianos was holding him in return.

“Thank you.”

They stayed like that for some time, attempting to fight back the sadness.

 

_It had shimmered in the night._

_He had seen the glow of it wandering through the ruins and he marveled through his pain over the strength of Laurent’s conviction._

_Today had been one of his dark days when he felt a little sad and homesick and it had not been helped by the place they had chosen to camp. He had always been fond of visiting Marlas and seeing the mix of Akielos and Vere within the smooth white walls. It had always seemed to be a place of peace and creativity to him. Seeing it destroyed and empty had shattered a part of him._

_He could not see the colors of places or people who had left for the afterlife, but he could still feel that the ruins of Marlas were not serene. The city’s death had been a violent one._

_He missed the old Marlas. He wished Laurent could see it as it was._

_And then, quite suddenly, he felt helpless for the first time in years. In Akielos, his word was as good as law; he and his kyroi could change things with the pressing of a seal into warm wax._

_Here it was not so easy. He had no power._

_The gods were cruel if this was what they wanted him to learn._

_He had to leave to hide his sorrow but it seemed Laurent sought to comfort him. He was worried, Damianos could see it, and he smiled at how sweet and stubborn the young man could be. Somehow his contrary mix of gentle and sharp and sarcastic and diligent fought the sorrow. He allowed himself to be found._

_He liked to see the silvery tint to the gold as the blue of concern mixed in, followed by the blush of relief when Damianos was found._

_Damianos was lying awake now, his bedroll laid out under the stars._

_He could not sleep with so much on his mind, trying to think positively about what he could do in this place. He believed himself destined for greatness but perhaps he was meant for something more intimate this time._

_Laurent was asleep next to him with a thin strip of grass in between their bedrolls._

_Damianos watched his colors._

_He liked the dreaming colors of people, endless ribbons of indecipherable soft colors that bloomed like flowers and disappeared after only a moment. Thank god Laurent was not having nightmares…_

_Damianos longed to know more. He wanted to know about Laurent’s family, the ones who caused his colors to dull with sadness, he wanted to know about this Jord fellow, he wanted—_

_The wind blew cool and Damianos felt bumps rise on his skin. Laurent shifted deeper into his blankets and Damianos felt a rush of rosy fondness. He wanted to embrace the man again._

 


	7. 7. Do You Walk in the Valley of Kings?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I like writing fluffy dialogue and witty banter so much that I forget that Damen and Laurent often fought with each other. I don't want to make Damen such a pushover that he cannot get angry and stand up for himself. Hahaha so though you guys may not like it, there's a reason behind why I made him like this in this chapter.  
> And Jord...oh Jord I'm so sorry for what I decided to do to him. But it's also a good reason for why Laurent gave up on fighting his uncle for his inheritance. I won't do an in-depth gory flashback; you guys can imagine.  
> Enjoy everyone!

**7\. Do You Walk in the Valley of Kings?**

Laurent woke up on the first day of his weekend on his couch with the television still on.

He recalled hazily that Damianos had come over the previous night to watch an old black and white Veretian film where some young heir ran away to the coast to sail off with his lover. Damianos loved those kinds of films and Laurent had been tired from his continual preparation for the upcoming gala. _What time is it? Fuck…_

Damianos had slept over as well. Laurent was as comfortable with him as he was with anyone and he didn’t mind as Damianos was nothing less than the most courteous of guests.

His head had been resting against Damianos’ flank, which explained why there was a pain in his neck, and Damianos’ head was leaning on the back of the couch, his mouth half open. Laurent smiled at his decidedly unkingly way of sleeping and extricated himself carefully to walk over to the kitchen and prepare his morning coffee.

On his return, Laurent took a pinch of leftover grounds and sprinkled them casually in Damianos’ open mouth.

The effect was instantaneous and hilarious.

Damianos’ face screwed up in distaste and he woke quickly, wiping his tongue off with his thumb. “My mouth tastes of that foul stuff you drink. Did you pour some into my mouth?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Laurent replied, taking special care not to show any of his amusement.

Damianos narrowed his eyes and they flicked up to Laurent’s hair. “I do not believe you.”

“You are mistaken.”

Laurent watched him as he stretched out his arms on the way to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. “What will we do today?”

He thought about what needed to be done and he remembered that the movie needed to be returned. “Would you…like to go somewhere new?”

Laurent had been carefully avoiding the Marlas Library, fearful that Damianos would look on the Akielon design of the building and decry it as a crude approximation of the fine but destroyed buildings of the south. He always forgot that the man was utterly delighted by new experiences and did not look at art and beauty through a cynical Veretian lens.

When they exited the closest metro station and Damianos saw the massive library with its’ noble white marble pillars and carvings of the wisest of the Akielon and Veretian scholars of old.

Laurent as a boy had often entertained the dream of becoming a librarian or the owner of a stable (or, in all likelihood, both) and libraries brought him a unique sense of peace. Except for one part of this one.

Damianos was practically spinning in the lobby, attempting to look every way at once. He blushed a little as he saw Laurent grinning at him. _Surely a man so enamored of libraries is good beyond nature, but he is not above teasing_.

“Have you never set foot in a library before, you jock?” He asked, wondering if Damianos knew what a ‘jock’ was.

“If you insult me I shall toss you over my shoulder, you little thing.” He fired back, “I have never seen such high ceilings before in an Akielon building. And this mosaic,” there was a massive one in the main lobby showcasing two figures surrounded by piles of scrolls and books, “is very well done. How many books do you suppose are in here?”

“Enough to keep us busy for quite a while.” Laurent responded, not knowing the answer himself.

They walked inside, Laure carefully avoiding the large bronze plaques on the walls as they entered the main rotunda. It was so light and airy inside, a buzz of hushed conversation between groups nearly drowned out by the sound of a hundred turning pages. Even the smell reminded Laurent of the beloved home libraries of his childhood.

He and Damianos selected their chosen books and Laurent showed him to his favorite reading alcove in the entire place.

Though ancient Veretian architecture was known for secret passageways and rooms hidden behind mirrors and wardrobes, Akielon design had taken a more simplistic approach to secluded spots to be alone or to share with a lover.

His preferred spot was in an area populated by native plants, ivy hanging down around bookshelves with volumes that needed to be shielded from bright light. Laurent was able now to slip through the ivy without causing the leaves to rustle. Damianos followed close behind, clearly amazed, even though he had to duck to get through the doorway behind the leafy curtain.

There was a small alcove behind it: two reading nooks next to the windows with a table between so that he and Damianos could read their chosen books in relative peace.

It was here that Laurent and Damianos had an argument that changed everything.

After their time together in Marlas, they had been spending even more time together, sharing even more of their thoughts. Damianos spoke easily of life in Akielos while Laurent was more than happy to show him everything the modern world had to offer. They both dodged the subject of their families. _It was just as well_ …

But today was a little different. If Laurent had to be honest with himself, it was his doing.

He had chosen first a very old and yellowed copy of the lengthy history of Akielon royalty. Many kings, queens, and _kyroi_ along with their often-extensive lists of children were listed in the book along with whatever was known about them. There were of course wide swathes missing: traitors to the realm, those days when Akielos was split into several self-governing countries, records lost by time and war and of course those men and women who’d had vengeful family members or usurpers scratch their names from the family tree for some dishonorable reason.

He had, of course, been looking for any mention of Damianos, though his attempts had proved futile up until this point. There were so many of them and Laurent wished he knew more about Damianos’ family so that he could make a more informed guess.

“I hope to god you keep your child bearing to a minimum.” He remarked lightly when he needed to break the silence. Damianos looked up from his own book. “This Damianos had twenty-seven children and eighteen bastards who all made claim for the throne.”

Damianos’ eyes widened. “What are—?”

Laurent shrugged. “And this one disappeared with his husband through a god’s cave. Though the story is incomplete. It does not say whether or not they returned. Gods, there are so many of those with your name.” He had long wondered about Damianos’ past and was now filled with a gnawing desire to know more.

“Laurent you must stop this.”

“It is all very interesting, I assure you. I promise the Veretian royalty is much more violent in any case. I see a great deal of the blood involved your homeland.”

“I am not—.”

Laurent continued, assuming it was a small annoyance for Damianos. “I wonder if all men named Damianos are as scandalous as you. In any case, this one’s father had—.”

“Please stop! I do not wish for you to pry into my life from long ago!” Damianos said and it was the first time his blaze of anger had been directed at Laurent. Laurent found that he did not care for it.

His mind went immediately to suspicion. _Why is he adamant I don’t know more about him? Why will he divulge nothing other than the culture at the time? Is he hiding something from me? Is he…?_

Laurent’s cynicism touched on an idea that took his breath away and the betrayal of the idea was such that he felt nearly sick with anger and hurt. “You did not come from the fountain. It was a lie was it not?” He stood up so that he was tall over Damianos and words came out in quick, cold darts, “It was all _lies_. You just know of the history and you are afraid I will discover your deception! You have no family from then, you cannot tell me their names because you do not know them!” Damianos was silent, mouth open in shock and Laurent took it as a sign of guilt discovered. “Who _are_ you? Who has sent you to _do_ this? Why have you come to deceive—I let you stay in my _home_! I comforted you and—it was all lies?” He nearly choked on the words.

Damianos took the pause to let out what had been building up and suddenly—as he stood—Laurent’s gaze was filled with an expression burning with conviction. “You mistake my intent! I have never been false to you! I am offended that you think it so. I know my story may be hard to believe but—where have I ever broken your trust?”

“I do not know who you are.”

“I am Damianos, Crown Prince of Akielos, and I fear that book in your hand!” He admitted finally. “I fear the museum too! Do you think I wish to discover the time and manner of my death? What if I see here that I will be killed in some gruesome way? Or if I am betrayed by a friend? What if my rule leads to war and ruin? Do you really want to impart this knowledge? I am afraid of what I will see and you bring this fear to me as a falsehood against you!” Laurent felt he could breathe again as Damianos’ anger left him and he sat back into his chair, massaging his temples. “I cannot…be burdened by this knowledge, please. I can tell you of my parents but…my Akielos is not so beautiful and clean as your museum. I do not wish to know what will become of me.”

Laurent sat down as well. It seemed a reasonable excuse but he had to take a moment to cool his racing heartbeat. “Ok…alright so, I will not tell you what I see. But…I must know…”

Damianos looked to Laurent’s eyes and then his gaze flicked to the spot over Laurent’s head. “My father w—is named Theomedes. My mother is Egeria.” He spoke them without pause or hesistation to come up with a lie.

Laurent did not touch the book. The desire to know had gone out of him. It had been replaced by a feeling of illness over his lack of trust in people. Damianos continued.

“The fountain is truly sacred to us. When I go back to Akielos,” Laurent noticed with a surprising sinking feeling that he did not say ‘if’, “I must be...I must...”

Laurent knew he should let the man finish but he felt a spring of bitter hurt bubbling up in the center of his chest. “You will be king won’t you?” Damianos looked at him with surprise. “That’s what the ceremony is for is it not? You are too old to have your coming of age and...your father...I...forgive me but he has passed beyond this life, yes?”

In his days as a younger man, Laurent might have gloated about another Akielon death but he knew intimately how painful it was to lose everyone. He would not wish this pain on anyone.

Damianos hung his head, grief still etched on his face. “How did you know?”

“I am a curator, i-it makes sense.” He gave the sensible answer first; he had known that Akielos had a great many traditions in place for when old kings had died and new ones to be crowned. But... “But it showed on your face too, whenever you spoke of your return.” He also could not be ignorant or heartless to the deep sorrow that came over Damianos whenever he spoke of home. He was very familiar with the feeling.

Damianos gave a watery kind of laugh. “Of course…”

“Was he a good king?”

“I…I can only aspire to be like him. He was a good man and a good king to his last. When I return I feel I will fall short of his expectations for me. I wonder…if all kings and queens felt this way. I doubt your book would be able to say.”

“I am sorry.” Laurent murmured, placing his hand over Damianos’. _You have backed the man into a corner and here are the results._ “For what it is worth…I think you are of the temperament and confidence to make a great king…”

“Thank you. Your high opinion of me is—.” Damianos trailed off and hung his head so that his hair covered his face. Laurent pretended to ignore the tiny splashes that fell to the desk in front of Damianos and stroked the man’s hand with his thumb. He waited for Damianos to recover, which he did with a deep, shaky breath and cheeks that were still shimmering.

“Forgive me.”

Damianos laughed shakily. “Consider it done. I had to explain at some point.”

“Thank you.”

Damianos smiled at him, almost laughing. “Your first instinct is as a curator. How do you manage whenever you go further south?”

Laurent smiled though he left it unsaid that he was hesitant to go any further south than Marlas. “Vases are a particular problem for me.” Damianos laughed at that and the good mood was generally returned.

“For a moment I thought you could see my mind.” Damianos said.

“One might argue that it is _you_ that can see things.” Laurent would not rule out his gut instincts and his eyes and he felt Damianos freeze in front of him. He felt nearly dizzy; _maybe it was true_. “You always seem to know just what everyone is thinking or feeling.” Damianos’ eyes were huge and Laurent continued, buouyed by his amazement of the unknown. “I did not believe in it but…I believe that you tell me the truth, I can see it. Which means…as you said the fountain is real, the gateway is real, and…nothing is beyond belief.”

The air was nearly knocked out of him as Damianos held his hands tight, making it so they were even closer than before. He didn’t care. He was lightheaded with the discovery.

“I—.” Damianos seemed prepared to either offer explanation or question him at length.

Laurent ran his fingers along the back of Damianos’ hand without thinking and Damianos placed his hand, palm up, in Laurent’s. He looked nervous and was doing that thing Laurent had noticed him do where he looked at Laurent first before his eyes naturally flicked to the spot just above Laurent’s head.

 _He is too easy to read to have such a secret_. Laurent found his thoughts tinged with fondness.

“What is it about my hair that enchants you so?” He teased, smiling as Damianos flushed at being caught.

Laurent waited as Damianos took a moment to compose himself. When he looked up, his eyes were burning. “You have told no one of your suspicions?”

“Who would believe me?” Laurent whispered. He gave Damianos another moment to decide whether or not to trust someone with his secret.

“My mother is the fountain priestess. The fountain I came through, she guards it carefully and brings those of royal blood to be cleansed.” Damianos began reluctantly, his voice little more than breath. “She is…one of the closest things we have to the gods. And she can sense things much like I can; I suppose she passed it to me. But we can see the…” He spoke the word in ancient Akielon and then seemed unable to translate it, much to his annoyance, “ _fuck_.”

“See the fuck?” Laurent laughed in spite of himself and he felt Damianos laughing too.

“No, no. Not ‘fuck’, shhhh.” Still it took them a moment to stop laughing over Damianos’ complete mastery of modern slang. “I cannot say it in old Veretian or otherwise but we call it something similar to ‘mix’. I have seen it above people’s heads since I was a small boy, as my mother has, but she made me swear to never tell anyone.”

“What is it?” Laurent asked quickly before Damianos realized he was about to defy the oath to his mother. “What does it look like?”

Damianos bit his bottom lip. “I see feelings, emotions. They bloom above the heads of people and change color and shape depending on how they feel. I cannot…” He glanced up above Laurent’s head to gauge the ‘mix’ he saw, “I cannot describe it well. They are just…colors that change. I simply understand them.”

“You cannot read thoughts?” Laurent thought of such a thing with a drip of fear, though he kept his tone level. _He has seen me with Govart, with the photo, with Uncle…oh gods_ …

Damianos rubbed Laurent’s wrist with his index finger. His expression was filled with concern. “No I cannot. I cannot read thoughts nor see memories. Only feelings. Do not be afraid.” _He can see you are afraid_.

“I…am merely surprised.” He lied and Damianos raised one eyebrow, calling out his bluff. “Tell me more about it. I want to know more.”

“What is it you wish to know? There may be some things I cannot explain well.”

“Are all the colors the same?”

“No. Everyone is unique. I just understand them when I see them. But generally there is one base color and then a few others that change depending on how one feels.”

“What is my color?” Laurent asked. He wondered if he would like to look in a mirror and see stars of color flickering above his blond head.

Damianos smiled and Laurent did not need to have his strange ability to see the affection in his expression as he looked at whatever was above Laurent’s head. “It is gold, mostly gold tinged with rose when things are good. Blue, like ice, when you are nervous or scared or sad.” Laurent recalled all the times when he had been on edge when Damianos was nearby and his heart constricted. Damianos averted his eyes and squeezed Laurent’s hand. “As I said, I cannot read your thoughts like words on parchment. I only know when you most need someone by your side.” He looked into Laurent’s eyes, avoiding the colors above. “You…need not fear it.”

Laurent searched his eyes.

_He had always looked away when I was upset. He did not pry when he saw the colors were showing pain._

“It…it must be exhausting,” Laurent whispered finally, “to have kept such a secret for so long.” He wondered what would happen if he were to place his hand on Damianos’ cheek.

“My mother understands. And now you. Being a king requires a certain amount of… loneliness.”

“Would she be very upset? That you have revealed this to me?”

“She would like you. She likes people who find the beauty in life more than those who would fight and destroy.” _If only you would have met me at nineteen_. “And besides, I want someone to know before I return. There is no fear of you knowing.”

He felt cold as he removed his hands from Damianos’.

The good humor was gone and he felt something sharp and bitter in his chest. _I am so very tired of having to say farewell to the people I—_ “Do not look.” He ordered as he saw Damianos notice the invisible change above his head. Damianos knew and kept his eyes securely on Laurent’s face though he looked…alarmed? Hurt? He knew now that Damianos’ trust in him was a little shaken but Laurent did not want him to see. “Please don’t look right now.”

Damianos’ eyes seemed deep enough to swallow him, watery from holding Laurent’s gaze or… “I have to go back, Laurent. I have to. The kings always return.”

“I know.” _I hate it. But I know._

 

Laurent had to steel himself to do it but he felt braver these days.

He had come down to Crepuscule, the quiet outer northwestern edge of the city where many middle class Veretians lived in weathered brownstones. Laurent had avoided Crepuscule for quite some time so it took him a while of searching to find the correct street.

The apartment was plain, dun and covered in ivy, the rooms themselves set above a corner grocery store. Laurent felt so nervous looking up at the uniform windows that he actually entered the store and began to look for something, anything to calm his nerves. _The clear bottles of liquor looked enticing_ …

The clerk behind the counter stared at him until he decided on a chilled bottle of café au lait and drank it in one shot on the corner outside.

 _I need to do this_.

He slipped in through the front door as someone else was leaving and looked for the familiar name on the postbox. There were two of them there. _Thank the gods_.

The stairs were old and weathered, announcing every pressing of his weight as he moved up fast, afraid he would lose his nerve if he slowed. He was sweating a little as he reached the fifth floor though his skin was cold. He located their door and saw it was painted a lovely dark green color.

Laurent tried to steady himself with anything and help came from the unlikeliest of places.

He recalled his conversation with Damianos once they had both recovered enough for Laurent to pose more questions about the strange ‘mix’ Damianos could see above people’s heads. He had been told that everyone had a base color that would be tinged with others when they were experiencing relaxing emotions or emotions that caused stress; from Damianos’ explanation, his base color was gold and was tinged blue or rose depending on his feeling. But apparently the clouds changed shape or saturation depending on the emotion as well. It was difficult to envision but Laurent tried.

And now he was obsessed with wondering what people glowed with, unbeknownst to themselves. Damianos seemed amused when Laurent snuck away from his duties to ask about the people who passed by.

‘ _What is Lazar’s base color?’_

_Damianos had smiled. ‘Red. Very passionate. Pallas’ is very light purple. They mix well together.’_

_‘And Charls?’_

_‘Green.’ Damianos had leaned closer so that Laurent could feel the heat of him. ‘The color of life. Men with green colors are generally good and trustworthy. They find joy in life.’_

Jord’s color would be green. Just like his door. Laurent touched it with his fingertips and it felt like the wood was throbbing. It was just his heartbeat.

He knocked.

Immediately after, fear took over and he wondered if he had made an enormous mistake in coming here. _What if they did not forgive him?_ He turned away in preparation to leave when he heard the deadbolt slide out and the door open.

“It _is_ Laurent.” _Oh gods, that voice cut him to the quick._

His breath was shaky as he turned back to face Aimeric. His eyes were still wide and lovely as ever, his skin the soft peachy color that made people want to touch him, and the untameable mahogany curls. His face had healed but there were still scars laced across his cheeks and forehead in bolts of shiny pink. _All Laurent’s fault_.

“A-Aimeric.” He choked out.

He was unprepared for Aimeric to practically leapt forward to throw his arms around Laurent’s neck and tried to physically haul him back into the apartment.

“It _is_ you! Oh god, oh gods it’s been so long! We thought we would never see you again! Jord! _Jord_!” Laurent stiffened but he did not try to break the embrace. He heard footsteps from the hallway and hoped Aimeric could not feel his rapid heartbeat through his skin.

And then Jord was standing there in front of him, his five o’ clock shadow still there, his hair disheveled and his expression ecstatic. He felt Jord’s arms around him next and he smiled as he practically heard Damianos taunt him:

‘ _I told you so_.’

They pulled him inside, exclaiming over him while Laurent carefully avoided Jord’s gaze and Aimeric’s scars. He was vaguely aware that their apartment was simple and comfortable and oozing with love. The guilt was overwhelming and he wondered if his color was turning blue or disappearing entirely.

“It has been so long!” Jord said, clutching Laurent’s hands in his own as they sat at the weathered old kitchen table. “Where have you been all this time? I…I…”

“I work at the museum. In the Akielon Art Exhibit.” Laurent murmured, feeling himself wilt under their obvious concern for him. “And you?”

“I work as an EMT.” Jord replied; of course he did. He was always willing to help people, he had a calm nature, near-immovable strength, and…he had almost been too late for Aimeric. He probably never wanted to have that feeling again. He would be the first one there. “Aimeric works at a café in the main hospital.” _Always close together, they were scared of leaving the other out of sight_. “Laurent, I was—we were so worried. We thought that maybe…”

His voice sounded so much like Auguste’s then that Laurent wanted to be angry, he wanted to run away. _Where did your fight go? He beat it out of me._

“I couldn't come back.” Laurent said and his voice was so cold and sharp to his ears. “You know I couldn’t. He would find you. I had to do it alone. I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. I can—.” He almost said _I can handle the pain on my own_ but he clamped his mouth shut and bowed his head. The grain of the wood filmed into a hazy red-brown blur but he would not let one drop spill out. It was too quiet. “Forgive me.” He whispered. He was squeezing Jord’s hand so tight that both of their knuckles were straining as if to break skin. “Please forgive me.”

_Laurent had gotten there first. Gotten there when Aimeric was past the point of screaming; his face was a sheet of blood. Jord had had four ribs and his arm broken and Laurent got the phone call. This was the penalty for trying to assemble allies, the penalty for being a bold, mouthy youth. It was all his fault._

Laurent felt tender hands cup under his chin and lift his head so his gaze met with Aimeric’s. Though the young man’s skin was scarred, his eyes were so beautiful. He was crying where Laurent could not.

“I forgave you the moment I saw you through that peephole. Once I saw you were still fighting.”

“I’m not—I…” Laurent tried to tell him that fighting alone had been too much. He had accepted defeat. He was dead tired of wars.

“You are still alive.” Jord said. “Your life is the greatest rebellion.” Deep in his dark eyes was something Laurent had lost along the way but still felt on occasion, burning in the center of his chest.

_Fire. Determination. Fight._

 

Laurent trudged home feeling drained. He was so tired and not himself that fear came seconds too late as he saw someone sitting on his stoop.

“Do not be afraid.” Came the soothing voice.

“I am not.” It had fled from him as soon as he had seen Damianos’ sweet face, his familiar form. Laurent felt nearly liquefied with relief as the man moved to him and he leaned forward so his forehead was pressed against Damianos’ massive chest. “Can you not see it?”

“I can see it.” He sounded proud, happy, warm. Laurent sank in deeper. “May I—?”

“Yes.” Laurent answered immediately, regardless of what Damianos would ask of him. It had been so long since he had sought comfort in another person and he found he was starved of it. He should have known that Damianos was impulsive enough to surprise him with more than a simple embrace.

He felt a large, warm hand on the top of his head, stroking his hair. Laurent made a pleased noise, hoping that sparks of color in blush and gold were rising from between Damianos’ fingers and exploding like starbursts in the air.

 

_Damianos felt so much lighter._

_He was not built for keeping secrets and he had been keeping one for most of his life._

_Though he had idolized his father, it was his mother he adored and he recalled the very day from his childhood when he asked her why he could not see her ‘colors’. She had told him of her own gifts as the fountain priestess and made him promise not to tell anyone else._

_“They will not understand, my Damianos.” She had whispered to him, holding him close. “If they know what you can see, people will distance themselves. You will live a lonely life if people think you have a god’s power. I want you to be loved by your people, not feared.”_

_The promise had made him lonely in another way as he knew who was false to him and he could not explain to them his sudden coldness._

_Damianos wondered now if his father had ever known what his mother could see. He would ask her when he returned. Now that death had visited his family once, he wanted to ask his mother so many things. He would apologize for breaking his oath…to someone who had not yet been born. It was only fair._

_He had been so delighted by what Laurent had showed him in this time, he wished to return the favor. Laurent did not disappoint either._

_His questions were sweet and endless, his wide mismatched eyes glistening with curiosity and amazement as he obviously imagined what Damianos was describing. When Damianos explained, his halo turned the most beautiful rosy gold._

_His questions took Damianos’ mind off of his father._

_Many people thought the sudden death was poison, perhaps from a Veretian hand, but Damianos had seen the secret sickness slow and up close; yet another burden the king must bear alone._

_Damianos could not imagine Ios without him; he did not know where he would go or what he would do when he returned. There was a gaping hole in his life that would remain empty. The thought of death and his mother passing had him in even further panic. In this time he had already passed on to the afterlife, another Damianos written down in the pages of a history book with a year of death written as a finality after his name._

_At least Laurent had taken his advice._

_He was unaware of what this Jord fellow meant to Laurent, but he could tell Jord and his lover had been close to Laurent and that the memory of them brought Laurent intense pain and sorrow. He had returned with his halo calm and perfect and Damianos felt a little more at peace with himself._

_He could not, as one person, heal this entire country. Nor could he hope to cheat death itself._

_But if he could help one person heal then…then perhaps he would make one person’s life better. Perhaps not the true measure of a king, but the measure of a good man._

_Laurent shifted against him, fast asleep against Damianos’ flank. It looked to be another night of sleeping on the couch._

_He did not mind. He had lightened his burden of secrets._


	8. 8. He Was a Dreamer at Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Synesthesia!   
> Now that the 'secret' is out I can give some explanation. I sincerely doubt this form of synesthesia exists but the idea was too good to pass up. I was inspired by Jason Matthew's 'Red Sparrow' Trilogy (which is AWESOME) and kind of tweaked it for my own purposes.   
> Now all I can think of is what kind of triads of color everyone in the Capri universe would have haha! Maybe I'll make a list someday...  
> In any case, Damen's secret is out and now it's time for Laurent to give up his ghosts.   
> Also kudos to you guys if you can spot quietly jealous Damen in this chapter. I think Laurent was too busy to notice but I'm sure some of you will haha!  
> Thanks for all your love and support and I hope you enjoy!

**8\. He Was a Dreamer at Heart**

The printer delivered the boxes that morning to the museum. Laurent found that out because Damianos dropped the boxes with a soft cardboard thump at his feet and it startled Lazar so badly that he almost dropped the tear drop-shaped shrub he was moving.

He smiled sheepishly when Laurent noticed him righting the fixture. “All good boss.”

“I will actually shoved that vase into your ass if you break it.” Laurent warned, though he was smiling a bit.

“Promises, promises.” Lazar laughed away his bluff and presented a box cutter. “I enjoy a satisfying stretch as much as the next man.” Damianos laughed at that and called Pallas over to see what the box contained.

Laurent popped the box open easily and felt the smooth cardstock piles under his fingertips.

He pulled the top one out, thrilled when he saw them. The invitations were glossy black with gold leaf for the script and gold leaf for the ancient seals of Akielos and Vere pressed into grooves on each sheet. Laurent knew he must have been glowing as he handed one to Damianos first, wanting him to see the beauty of it.

“For the Gala?” He asked, his eyes taking in every detail of the card.

“Yes.” Laurent felt his excitement building. The day was so close.

The wing was coming together beautifully. All the sawdust and debris had been cleared away, the floors had been polished to a mirror sheen, and everything that would be displayed to their guests was in its’ proper place. Pallas had even dumped a bottle of water into the fountain and winked at Laurent. They would replace it properly the day of the Gala so that the exhibit would not smell of musty water.

Though Laurent was confident in his skills, he still had Damianos walk through to provide his assessment.

He breathed a sigh of relief as Damianos declared the exhibit tasteful enough that he would be pleased to show it in his palace. “You glow,” He said appreciatively, his expression radiant.

“You take liberties.” Laurent said with no inflection, though he could feel his cheeks burning with blush. Damianos bumped against him, cheeks dimpling deep.

However, they both skirted the fountain carefully.

Laurent swore it seemed to pulse when Damianos was close by and—if he was being very honest with himself—he was often half-tempted to tell Lazar to haul it out to sea and throw the priceless thing overboard. _It is reminding us that it will call him back…_

He shook his head to keep the dark ideas from his mind and instead called Charls down to the wing to take his own stack of invitations to send out to his personal guests and the donors for his wing as well as the gold felt tip pen and stamp they would put on each one. Charls thundered into the room at full sprint, his cheeks ruddy with delight over their invitations having arrived.

Laurent deftly snatched the pen and stamp from Charls’ hand as he bypassed Laurent entirely and attempted to get in the box Lazar was holding. “F-For god’s sake man! Let me have th-them!” Lazar nimbly danced away from him, running about the main area like a dog with a stolen sock.

“Sorry I don’t speak Veretian!”

“Laurent, the m-man has gone mad!” Charls complained, pausing to catch his breath as he put his hands on his knees.

“Lazar will you cut the shit?” Laurent asked without looking up. He instead took the laughing Damianos and manually turned the man so he could use his wide back as a writing desk. Nicest desk he had ever touched…

The chase ended abruptly when Pallas decided to get involved and snatched Lazar around the waist. The man stopped mid-stride, the box continuing where Lazar could not. Laurent rolled his eyes as he heard the box hit the floor and the soft slithering sound of hundreds of invitations spilling out and sliding over polished marble. Charls gave a little gasp of horror and Damianos shook a little harder though he was doing an admirable job of not laughing out loud.

“Be still.” Laurent said, trying to keep himself under control so that he could sign his name without the signature being shaky.

By the time he looked up, Charls had triumphantly assembled his stack of invitations, and Lazar was on his hands and knees picking up the rest while Pallas slapped him when he popped out his ass.

“I hope I don’t regret this.” Laurent said to himself, waving both invitations to let the ink dry.

“Boss, where do you want these?” Lazar asked, hefting the refilled box up onto Pallas’ shoulder.

“Those can go in the main office.” Laurent said coming abreast of the two lovers, noting Pallas’ hand resting lightly on Lazar’s hip. “And these,” he extended the two invitations written with their names and his signature of approval, “are for you two.” Lazar and Pallas both lit up, seemingly amazed by the invitation. “Please wear a suit. A _nice_ suit if you want to come.” He wanted them there, if not to horrify the other stuffy curators and donors, then simply because he liked them. Genuinely liked them.

“Thank you.” Pallas said in heavily accented Veretian. “You are sweet to me.”

Lazar snatched his between his index and middle finger and tried to appear nonchalant though his dark cheeks were a little flushed. “Can I—?”

“No, you cannot fuck him in the bathrooms, in the reception area, behind the statues, under the catering tables or wherever the fuck else you might be considering.” Damianos was laughing outright and Lazar grinned at being caught. “No sex at the goddamned Gala. And wear a suit.”

“I swear.” Lazar promised, pocketing the invitation and kissing Laurent easily on the cheek. “Thank you.”

The two of them wandered off, Lazar constantly calling Pallas a ‘beautiful slab’ and ‘beef babe’ as they wandered off into the unsuspecting museum crowd. Damianos brushed Laurent’s jaw with his thumb, looking slightly disgruntled before handing him the rest of his invitations.

“Sawdust.” He explained.

“Thank you. Is there anyone you wish to invite? You can invite up to ten people since you are working that night.”

“You will invite Makedon and Halvik? I am in no need then. Who else will you invite?”

“Just Jord and Aimeric.” Laurent admitted. They had been messaging each other carefully over the past week and a half but Laurent was afraid he would bring wrath down on the two of them or dredge up painful memories while Jord and Aimeric seemed afraid he would disappear into the night again. The Gala was his way of letting them back into his life.

“I am excited to meet them.” Damianos said.

“Let me know if you want the invitations.” Laurent said, feeling a little too edgy about them to continue on in this vein. “You can sell them for quite a bit of money actually.”

“Can I?” Damianos seemed amused by the entire idea.

“For those who do not get an invitation by the curators or our most generous donors, they must pay…quite a bit of money to secure a spot. It is very exclusive.” He said it almost mockingly, knowing that someone as privileged and laid-back as Damianos could care less about flaunting his wealth at such a function.

“I shall keep that in mind if I am in desperate need of gold.”

They continued making small adjustments in Laurent’s new exhibit until it was time for Damianos to make his next rounds. “Will you come with me? Take a rest from this and walk the museum?”

Laurent’s legs did ache for exercise. “Alright…”

It was a mildly slow afternoon at the museum.

Damianos kept a slow pace so Laurent could keep up and Laurent felt a little bit on-edge as they made their way to the Veretian half of the museum. Art, clothing, dishware and all manner of excess stretched on before him, dizzying in the details. Laurent avoided that half of museum on general principle.

“What is Vere like in your time?”

Damianos thought for a moment. “We are not so close as I would hope, but I find Vere beautiful. Cold, but beautiful. I find the clothes unbearable, the buildings labyrinthine, and the people slippery. I have difficulty understanding them.”

“How easy you are with your compliments.”

“Gods, let me finish!” Damianos laughed. “The entire place confounds me. But…it does cause the heart to beat a little faster when you get past the defenses. When the people confide their true thoughts, when you are able to easily navigate the halls, when you can…pull out the laces of the clothes.” He flushed and Laurent felt his neck go prickly.

He could see it in his mind’s eye: Damianos’ dark hands gently pulling at the laces, revealing the ivory lace and smooth skin beneath, slipping his hands underneath the edges…

“Forgive me for…being too explicit.” Damianos kept his eyes lowered and Laurent suddenly wondered what kind of fireworks were pulsing above his head.

“You wander about naked and worry that _this_ is explicit?”

“It is private.” He replied with fondness in his tone and Laurent’s prickle sharpened. _How many Veretians has he bedded to cultivate such a taste for this?_

“It is good we have not changed in as many years.” He felt his tone was a little sour.

“I like it. I like the cunning and the wickedness and the games when they do not realize I can see what they think of me.”

“You are the wicked one.”

The hall of paintings was a particularly sore spot as Laurent was confronted with a veritable sea of blue velvet and golden heads lovingly recreated in oil and pastel and watercolor. _Surely there could not be so many blond royals._ Ever fond of gold and the status it implied, Laurent knew that many Veretians in the past dyed their hair or wore golden wigs.

“Is your favorite color blue?” Damianos whispered, “No reason…”

Several people turned to look back as Laurent barked a laugh. “God, it is _heinous_ is it not?” Damianos brightened at a particularly insipid looking teenage girl who held what appeared to be an ugly, white rat on her lap. “For all we claim to be the innovators of fine art, every painting looks like a blueberry nightmare.”

Damianos had to stop for a moment, overcome by the humor of ‘blueberry nightmare’. Laurent patted him on the back, looking away so he too would not dissolve into helpless laughter.

“Gods,” Damianos wiped the moisture from the corners of his eyes, “what shall I do? I fear I will never find another man who makes me laugh as you do.”

Laurent felt light at hearing that. Damianos had himself admitted that there were few around him who would feel comfortable embracing him; were there also only a handful who could make the king forget his troubles and laugh?

They were reaching the end of the hall of paintings and Laurent was getting ready to double back.

“Laurent!” There was a call from behind him. Charls passing by. “When you have finished with him might you come help me with the addresses for the invitations? Your handwriting is superior to mine.”

“Of course.” Laurent nodded. “We are almost done.”

“You are showing him your family then?” Charls said and Laurent went rigid. “Understandable. I will wait in my office for you.”

Laurent waited for the inevitability as Charls meandered away.

“Family?” Damianos asked and Laurent looked carefully at the last painting in the line.

If people looked carefully, they could see the slight burning at the edges of the canvas that even the tastefully thick edges of the frame could not fully hide. Surely Damianos could not help but notice now that the woman in the painting had similar delicacy to her features or that the older son had the same wicked smile. Or that the little boy had eyes that were slightly different shades of blue.

The silence was oppressive and Laurent began to turn so he could escape. “I am—.”

“ _Prince_ Laurent.” Damianos whispered, the knowing tone in his voice making Laurent tense again. “Prince Laurent of Vere.”

“Not anymore.”

 

Damianos did not search him out for the rest of the afternoon, which was somehow worse than if he had been pestering Laurent for answers.

 _He_ knows _me. He knows I will be sitting here with mind spinning in circles as I try to come up for excuses for this and in the end it will all be in vain because he can fucking_ see _the color of deceit above my head._

Laurent paced his office, debating what to do for a good forty minutes at least. But his renegade mind went back to the simplest, most effective and yet…the hardest course of action. No matter his feelings, his mind knew what was best to do and he stopped fighting it.

An hour to day’s end and Damianos knocked on his door, perhaps coming to see if he would still be allowed to join Laurent for dinner after work was over. His head was ducked slightly like he was expecting a negative outcome and Laurent could have embraced him.

“Laurent…”

“Damianos. Will you walk with me again before we go home?”

“O-Of course.” His eyes seemed to be vibrating with the want to flick to the crown of Laurent’s head. Laurent rolled his eyes.

“You can look if you want.” He said, breezing past Damianos. “I would not lie to you about this.”

He heard Damianos’ heavier steps behind him as he walked through the near-empty halls and led them to the open, airy atrium where the Veretian sculptures were housed. He took care to avoid the hall where the paintings were.

Damianos stopped, concern etched on his handsome face, by the ink black statue of two pets singing while staring longingly at one another. Laurent wondered if the models of this particular sculpture had ever closed the gap and kissed each other’s half-open mouths.

_Damianos might have ravished the both of them in his time. He is so good. Look at how his fingers are nearly touching their skin. I bet they’d come to life if he touched them. I bet it feels—_

“Laurent.”

His eyes were deep and liquid and warm, that color that hovered somewhere between dark brown and black. They sucked him in until he felt soft and tender and safe so he forced himself to turn his attention to something else. _Bring the edges back_.

Laurent looked at one of the massive golden starbursts that had hung on the gates of the ancient palace at Arles. He reached out his hand and touched it with the very tips of his fingers to feel the hammered gold surface of the center of the star.

He took a shaky breath.

“I am Laurent of Vere.” He said and it felt good to say aloud. “I am like you. I can trace my blood back through the pages of history books. If I had been born in your time, it would have been with a crown on my brow.” He turned to Damianos and the man was looking at him with sudden realization. “I am one of the last of two remaining of the royal family of Vere.”

Damianos must have seen something or sensed something because he moved forward to grip Laurent’s forearms to steady him. “Laurent…”

“You look on a prince who has lost everything. My country no longer exists. All of my family is dead save for…one. Any birthright is taken from me. I…”

Damianos waited patiently as Laurent composed himself.

“Let us sit.”

They found a marble set of stairs to sit on and Laurent tried to think of where he should start his story. Laurent felt a gentle hand on his head, stroking his hair to calm him down. _Start with the happiness_.

“I loved my brother.” He began. “His name was Auguste and he was eleven years older than me. When I was young, we were opposites: he was the golden child, good at sports, and gentle, and brave, while I was…shy. But he loved me. He was…the greatest man, the dearest to me.”

He recalled the lovely days of them reading together, Auguste teaching him to fence under the shade of an apple tree, the two of them taking a ride before dinner. He recalled Auguste’s praise of his intellect, the gentle warmth of his embrace, the sweets sneaked when no one was looking.

His memory was terrifyingly hazy when it came to his memories of Auguste’s face.

“The war.” Damianos whispered, regret clear on his face.

Just a single phrase could bring so much pain. “The war began a little before I was eight. It did not…it did not touch our lives until I was ten. My father believed in the war cause and he and Auguste were drafted to fight. I never saw my father again after he left. I saw Auguste once more but…he was not the same.” The smile had been less easy, his eyes hard. _He was sharp like me._

“I have heard war doing such things to young men.” Damianos agreed.

Despite his best effort, despite keeping his back straight and chin up, a renegade tear spilled hot and fast down his right cheek. “H-He died in Chastillion.” The body had never been brought back. It would not have mattered. “Our home in Arles had been destroyed by then. My mother and I were on the run.”

His mother had been the strongest in his family.

Hennike, with her long butter blonde hair, had protected him for nearly six years. She had scrounged for food that she gave him, pawned what jewels she had taken to buy him warmer clothes as he grew, stroked his hair and kissed him as if nothing was wrong when he could not sleep for fear of soldiers and bombs and gunfire.

“She got sick when I was twelve.” He tried to speak without feeling. “All the doctors were at the border and we had no wealth at hand. It was just before my fourteenth birthday when she…”

“No.” Damianos insisted. “You need not say more.” He looked distraught. _Too sweet, too empathetic_. “Laurent…”

“It…I feel better knowing that someone knows.” A man who seemed more god than mortal, it was simply like confessing to a hero of a story, though…he would leave certain parts out. _Things you still cannot bear to admit even to yourself_. “It was simply a matter of…starting over. It is refreshing in a way,” he sighed a laugh though it sounded forced, “to be invisible and have no one know…who you are, where you came from.”

“I understand.” Damianos said solemnly. “I…I wish in this moment that…I had not always been so privileged. I wish there were…something I could say to ease your pain.”

Laurent felt a flash of irritation, not at Damianos’ words, but at the unfairness of fate. He had to hold himself back to keep from sounding too sharp. “No words can ever make this right. Not unless… not unless they come back.” He had held his dead mother, walked to Arles to see its’ skeleton stripped bare, he had been split open from the inside and was left with nothing to show for it. “It was so…so _difficult_ to even breathe.” He gasped. “Everything was gone. I had to be…” _Ruthless. He was a monster in those first years, with eyes like ice and a will to match. No softness, no warmth, just the cold, immovable sharpness of ice._

"Surely there must have been something left of your line. To keep you from the streets. To keep you _safe_."

_A golden crown would sit so heavy on my head. So someone wrapped it around my throat._

"There was." He said, his throat constricting slightly and he was glad that Damianos was not glancing to the spot above his head. "But there was...contention over who was entitled to it after...everything." Damianos looked confused; Laurent envied him the luxury of being able to forget about his uncle. "My uncle." He reminded gently and felt a strong feeling of vindication when Damianos looked like someone had threatened to kill his mother. "We took the issue of inheritance to the courts once I came of age but...I decided to...let it all go."

_It had hurt. Fuck it, it still hurt._

He could give a shit about being wealthy. True, wealth brought power in this new world that had been sapped of it after years of fighting, but it was more than that. It was a tie to the people he loved and lost. He often wondered if photos of his mother and father and brother were stashed away in some sterile vault to be used as a bargaining chip later for his cooperation. Moreover, someone like his uncle should not have wealth or power, much less a combination of the two.

But...

“I have to kill that man.” Damianos said in a rush, clearly too impassioned to hold back any longer, “he is…he…” He moved his hands by his head as if trying to explain the aura, but then turned his attention back to Laurent. “Did he hurt you badly?” There was no question of ‘if’, no question in Damianos’ mind that it was even a possibility. It was a certainty.

After so many years of fighting for people and courts to see what a monster the man was… “I had to stop fighting him. He tried to destroy what little I had left.” _Jord, Aimeric, the plaque on the library donor wall bearing his fucking name…I must hold everyone at arms’ length because he is watching for rebellion._ “I just wanted peace for once in my fucking life. Better to live quietly and in peace than to keep watching things…burn.” He could not bear to look up and see Damianos watching him as he admitted defeat. “I let him have it. All of it.” _And I am alone in return. All alone in the dark._

Damianos was shaking slightly as he held Laurent’s hand but his voice was smooth. “His color is like that oil I have seen.”

“What?” Laurent looked up, his mire of regret pierced through with curiosity.

“The oil that seeps from the ground in Patras.” Damianos said and Laurent knew instantly of the oil fields near the border of Akielos and Patras that had yielded so much in the past, but had dried up only a few years before his birth. “It is poison. It kills the plants, it kills anything in the rivers it pollutes, the stuff kills anything that drinks it.”

Laurent laughed a little at that. _How fitting_. “I believe it. He…he does whatever he wants in the city. He has the means to do it.” He had used all his bravery to tell Damianos of his past. He could not find it in himself to tell Damianos about the schools and the orphanages. _About what that oil had done to your body_.

Luckily, Damianos did not need any further proof than the color of his uncle’s aura and Laurent’s poor opinion of him. His expression was fierce and dark. “I knew of a man like that once. A similar… ‘mix’. He murdered for joy. Cut people to pieces and fed them to sharks. I cannot allow those kind of men to live.”

“Be my guest.” Laurent felt a little dizzy with joy over the thought of his uncle’s death. _All of those careful fantasies that he cherished carefully in the pit of his stomach flared to something like desire_.

Damianos’ gaze softened. “I…I will not ask details of you. Nor do I expect my simple words to be any balm to you. But…that kind of monster…I fear he might have caused you some pain.” He took care not to look above Laurent’s head, “I swear, while I am here I will not let him cause you any concern.”

It seemed slightly flowery and childish but Laurent was stricken by it.

Always fond of those ballads and stories of heroes and knights and gods, he felt Damianos’ oath deeply. It felt so good to have an ally again. Someone who fundamentally believed in his cause simply because he cared for Laurent’s happiness. _Gods, he is so_ good. _Is it possible for any one human to be so…good?_

"Where were you five years ago?" Laurent asked, gripping Damianos' hands as he spoke in modern Veretian. "Where were you? I could have conquered the world with you..."

“Laurent, may I—?”

Laurent did not even let him finish but pitched forward so he was pressed tight against Damianos, his arms wrapped around that barrier of a back. When Damianos’ arms were around him, he was enveloped in warmth and all his worries seemed to dissipate.

“You did so well.” Damianos assured him. “You were just a boy. You did all you could. You did so well.”

 _I gave up, I could not fight any more_. Like some sort of cycle of self-destruction, Laurent ached to bottle up and also scream his weaknesses from the rooftops. Instead he just allowed himself to be held until he became nearly boneless.

They rested still and silent for a moment, Laurent attempting to match his pulse with Damianos’.

“Thank you.” Laurent whispered into Damianos’ massive chest. “Thank you.”

Damianos must have felt him settle after another long moment and Laurent felt two hands, one cradling the back of his head, the other cupping his jaw with a thumb resting diagonally against his lips as he raised his head. His gaze was filled with Damianos.

Laurent wanted him to look up. _Look at my goddamn colors. Close the gap. I want you to._ His lips tingled and resisted the urge to cross his legs tight at the thighs. But, damn him, he was too well-bred to kiss someone at such a time.

“Laurent. I will do all I can to help you get it back.”

His eyes flicked down to Laurent’s lips— _gods, he was so transparent_ —and Laurent willed him to do it. He wanted this love and safety more than the promises. He felt a tug then that was almost physical. _Had the little pets come to life?_

Damianos’ eyes lit up with… _something_ and Laurent swore he could feel the pulsing through the floor. _That damned fountain_ …

He could feel the intent and wondered if that was to be the mission for the past king of Akielos: to ensure the future of the last prince of Vere. He suddenly found that it had lost some of its’ appeal when faced with the price.

_The bombed out remnant of his childhood or this man, unlike any other in the entire world?_

He wondered if Damianos was considering the same thing. He wondered what Damianos would choose. _Was he worth all of Akielos?_

_Charls had taken him after work the previous day to the fancy shop where he had first gotten fitted for his outfit for the Gala._

_Damianos had never been fond of Veretian pants and fitted clothes, clinging to them like a second skin and constricting tight around him, but this was nice and breathable. He had looked like a king again only…the modern version. A wealthy young man about to go to this beautiful event Laurent had created._

_He could not wait to show Laurent his assimilation into society._

_Thinking of Laurent standing in the museum amidst the treasures of their respective families had Damianos thinking as he pulled off his suit and put his casual clothes back on in the spacious dressing room._

_Laurent in the intricate laces of the past, with the laces going slack in the eyelets and the cloth falling open like petals around his skin…his color would flush so pink as to be nearly indistinguishable from red._

_He was suddenly so overcome by wanting that he needed to take a moment to rest and cool his forehead against the smooth wood of the door._

_As he walked the museum now, he saw Laurent with his tablet and his glasses on, smiling a tiny bit as he explained something to a museum patron. Damianos resisted the immediate urge to interrupt and call out to him._

_Laurent. Prince Laurent of Vere._

_He had felt it, like a tugging on his soul. He saw the light from the corner of his eye, that blinding white gold that he recognized. And he wondered if the time was coming close._

_Perhaps the gods of Vere had begged a favor. They wanted their prince to take his birthright._

_Damianos wanted to see it._

_He had seen the royals from Vere in his time, arrayed in bright silks with glimpses of soft lace beneath. The crown with dark sapphires, the royal ring with a matching blue star sapphire that seemed made for Laurent’s coloring. Damianos wanted to see him arrayed as such, even if Vere no longer existed._

_But it_ did, _in his time._

_Damianos thought then of the stories of the kings and queens who had brought people back._

_He wondered what Laurent would think of going to a time when Vere was still a country and was at peace with Akielos. Where Marlas was still whole and beautiful and no one would dare pay him insult or hurt him or Damianos would have them thrown into the sea._

_He walked the museum, half paying attention, half wondering what Laurent would look like in that particular crown of golden laurels, or a simple white chiton, or—daringly—one of those beautiful wrist cuffs… It was a pretty idea._

_Only a few weeks left until the Gala._

_Only a little longer…_

 


	9. 9. He Broke Your Throne and He Cut Your Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so full disclosure...  
> Did not write a thing for an entire week. I didn't write the next chapter of this in advance, didn't do too much on my big bang fic, didn't even respond to a lot of the comments here (I swear I will soon) and it was so nice!  
> Just had to take a break.  
> Maybe this chapter sapped my strength haha! In any case, decided not to delay the update and now we're here with a super intense chapter. The Gala is coming up, there are only 4 chapters left to go and the Regent is back so....  
> Enjoy?

**9\. He Broke Your Throne and He Cut Your Hair**

Laurent was expecting it at some point, but was taken pleasantly by surprise when Jord and Aimeric came to visit him at the museum one lazy weekday afternoon. Laurent could recognize them from their gait alone: Jord taken individually looked a bit self-conscious and unassuming but his stance was protective over Aimeric. Aimeric was more at ease, even with the scarf wrapped around his head in an attempt to hide his scars under the shadows. Their fingers were lightly intertwined and Laurent felt a pinprick of envy.

Aimeric saw him first and pulled at Jord’s hand before moving ahead.

“Laurent!” Exuberant as always, Aimeric leapt a little as he went to kiss Laurent’s cheeks, some of his curls slipping out as he moved. Laurent took care to make sure he did not kiss Aimeric’s scars.

“You came.” Laurent said simply once Jord had joined them.

“Of course.” Jord replied, looking around. “We had to wait until we both had the same days off. If Aimeric came alone, I’m afraid he might break something.” Aimeric slapped Jord’s arm with the back of his hand.

“Asshole.” He chastised lovingly, his scarred cheeks flushed. “We meant to come by sooner, honestly, but…I was afraid I might see something from Fortaine. You…you understand.”

He did.

Aimeric was originally from Fortaine and had lost about the same amount as Laurent had. “I believe…so long as you avoid the Veretian art halls. Who knows what kind of things they have salvaged.”

“I will avoid it.” Aimeric said thankfully. “It is very beautiful.”

“You should see it during the—.”

Laurent remembered then and felt that it was the perfect moment to present them with their personal invitations to the Gala. He texted Lazar quickly asking him to bring down two of the invitations on his desk.

“Please come with me and I can show you around the exhibit I am responsible for.” This would buy him time to have Lazar or someone bring him down the invitations. And Jord and Aimeric were exactly the kind of guests he enjoyed showing around.

They seemed as enthralled as the children who came to visit when they saw the vast collection of art under Laurent’s protection.

“This is _amazing_ Laurent.” Jord said, looking up at the statue that was the current crowning glory of his exhibit. “And you have dug them all up and brought them here?”

Laurent laughed a little at that. “I did not personally get a shovel and hike down to Akielos.” Jord flushed a little as Aimeric laughed and bumped him teasingly. “I have contacts down in Akielos who message me when artifacts are uncovered and I let them know which pieces the museum are interested in hosting. Then I send down my rum—er, my movers who bring them up to Marlas and I clean them here in the museum.”

“I quite liked the idea of you dragging these statues out of the ground with your own two hands and hauling them back to Marlas simply because you are stubborn.” Aimeric joked, looking at a marble statue that must have easily weighed several tons.

“Oh for gods sake! I cannot make a slip of the tongue?” Jord was overcome by embarrassment and gently pushed Aimeric as he and Laurent dissolved into giggles.

Laurent watched as Aimeric tried to console Jord by kissing his face until he came around to stop pretending to be angry.

 _No one will kiss you back to good humor_.

Loneliness struck him in the chest like a lash with a leather belt.

He saw Damianos trotting towards him with two heavy cream envelopes in his hand and brightened over the idea of the Gala and the closest people to him in attendance. Jord jumped a little as the sky seemed to darken around him; he was just standing in Damianos’ shadow. Aimeric blanched a lot, still a bit nervous around larger Akielons with silent steps—honestly, Laurent could hardly blame him for that one.

“Laurent.” Damianos said, clearly delighted to help him. _His dimples were so deep; did Jord and Aimeric notice them?_

“Erm…Damianos these are my…” _Cohorts? Allies? Martyrs?_ “friends, Jord and Aimeric. Jord, Aimeric, this is my coworker and sparring partner, Damianos.”

Jord recovered first, extending his hand as he attempted to fit all of Damianos in before he blinked. It was a tall order. “Hell of a sparring partner.”

Aimeric took him in as well and then turned to Laurent, his eyes sparkling with some kind of knowing that Laurent found he did not care for. “Only a coworker and sparring partner?” He inquired lightly. Laurent glared in response, praying to the gods that Damianos would not notice the color above his head or on his cheeks.

“Put simply.” He hissed back and Aimeric smiled at Jord. _Shit_. “Damianos, may I?”

Laurent schooled his thoughts and feelings as he snatched the envelopes from Damianos’ hands to present to Jord and Aimeric.

“What’s all this?” Jord asked, accepting his without pause.

“I hope you own a nice suit.” Laurent said softly. He recalled Jord’s original suit from when they had come to Marlas, with the patches in the elbows and the fraying hems. He was glad the memories were becoming a little distant.

Aimeric actually opened his envelope and Jord chose to read over his shoulder. Their reactions were vastly different, Damianos making no effort to hide as he cocked his head and looked at both of their colors. Laurent felt a little nervous as he saw Aimeric blanch.

“Laurent, y-you can’t possibly mean this.” Jord whispered, clearly delighted by the honor of an invitation. He touched the skin of Aimeric’s collar and noticed as he flinched away. “Aimeric?”

He nearly dropped the invitation to the Gala as his hands fluttered to his scarred cheeks. Damianos’ eyes were wide and flicking about as if there were fireworks going off above Aimeric’s head.

“E-Everyone will see.” Aimeric whispered, his hands tugging at the edges of his scarf.

 _Guilt. Regret._ Laurent felt like a fucking idiot for putting Aimeric on the spot and pushing him to do too much too fast. There was a lump in his throat that seemed to block breath and words.

Damianos found them, speaking in his hesitant, beautifully-accented Veretian. “It is just an invitation. If it frightens you you need not attend.” He brightened as Aimeric turned to him, perhaps confused by his archaic speech. “If you do come…I will be on guard and if anyone should comment then I can have them thrown from the windows.”

He was so sincere and enormous that Aimeric couldn’t help but take him seriously. His laugh was a bit shaky though. “You…inspire confidence.”

“He’s right.” Laurent admitted. “He can throw me like I am filled with feathers.”

Aimeric looked again at the human wall that was Damianos and perhaps felt a little safer to dream. “I…I will let you know if we decide to come.”

Laurent almost apologized as Aimeric tucked the invitation away and pulled his scarf a little closer around his face. But he plastered on a professional smile and decided to leave their attendance up to fate. “No pressure. Just enjoy the rest of the museum.”

Jord and Aimeric promised to contact him soon before wandering off hand-in-hand. Laurent felt Damianos brush against him, also staring at Jord and Aimeric as they meandered deeper into the museum.

“They are good men.” Damianos said, apparently unable to stand the silence.

“Their mixes are green, are they not?” Laurent responded quietly and smiled wide as he saw Damianos look shocked. His dark eyes flicked from Laurent’s wicked expression to the spot just above his head.

“You astound.” Damianos whispered when he seemed to find no trace of deceit. Laurent felt warm in the center of the chest.

 

With only an hour left until the museum was going to close, Laurent sat in his office with his tablet reviewing the pieces that had been in storage for quite some time. He had tentative ideas for new exhibits including a possible exhibit on sacred Akielon fountains and a special showing of all the statues of the male body they had on reserve.

 _Damianos would like that._ He could imagine the smile before the darker, sensible part of his mind took hold. _If he is still here._

The sadness of this scenario was so swift and intense that Laurent almost did not realize that someone had stepped into his office without even the minor courtesy of knocking.

Perhaps it was just his feeling of unease that caused him to look up…

Laurent felt his blood turn to ice, the very sound of his breath rushing through his ears as if he had been thrown into a storm. That spot of maroon blurred to a patch like blood in his vision.

He swore he could see it then, just as Damianos had described: a cloud of thick, viscous oil that rose from his shoulders and threatened to consume everything around him. Laurent physically tried to grind his dress shoes into the tile floors. _Never freeze_.

“Uncle.” He said in a voice that would be the palest gray.

“Laurent,” his uncle did not stop moving and he took Laurent gingerly by the shoulders before pretending to kiss him on either cheek. Laurent felt like his cheeks and shoulders had suddenly been touched by disease. He wanted to scrub himself clean of that foul touch. “It has been…quite some time since our last meeting. I hope you have been a good child.”

Laurent pulled his shoulders back, the words affecting him viscerally. “ _What do you want_?”

“Let us go somewhere more scenic to speak.” His uncle said, ignoring his question. Laurent was inclined to agree with him on that. He did not like the idea of being in a small room alone with the man.

Laurent breezed past his uncle, ready to be far from him. “Follow me. I am leaving the museum in twenty minutes and my duties as curator to a patron end there.” He partly hoped his uncle would cause a scene just so that he could call Damianos to come in and throw the man out on his ass.

Now to do the distasteful work of actually speaking to the man.

He avoided his exhibit and the halls of Veretian paintings, opting instead to go to the nearly empty halls of Veretian Music and Instruments.

As soon as he had put enough distance between himself and his uncle, he turned with shaking fists. “We are out in the open. Speak then. What do you want from me?”

His uncle glanced leisurely at a priceless ancient kithara, perhaps wondering how he might tear it apart. “This is a public place. I am well within my rights to come here.”

“We both know you’re lying.”

His uncle’s eyes flashed. He was so fond of toying with his victims that he did not like his careful tortures to be so quickly interrupted. “Very well. I am here to make sure you are not…stepping out of line.”

Laurent clenched his fists, feeling anger flare up inside him. “You will find that since your last visit my list of victims is nonexistent in comparison to yours.”

The charming smile took on a snarling edge. “You should watch your smart mouth.”

“It is because of you that it exists in the first place.”

“When we came to our agreement you swore that you would not try to challenge me again. That you would not make your claim in public. And in return—.”

It was an unfair deal and Laurent felt a bit of vindication as he saw his uncle try to put a positive coloring on their ‘agreement’. _Go on then. In return you would stop having men under your employ follow me and call me. Threaten to rape me. Threaten to dump my dead body in the rivers. Tell me of things you had done to me…Go on, say it._

Laurent smiled. “And in return, you would let me live. Now let me live. _Without you interfering_.”

“So of course I come when you defy.”

“You think me defiant?” His breath was a little ragged. “I am the Crown Prince of Vere and no matter the money or power or boys you have in your control…I am the one who will always be.” _Only two left and no more after. But I am pure. Not like you._ “I am nothing like you.”

“You do not deny it?” His uncle sounded furious beneath the silk of his voice.

“I have nothing to deny.” Laurent actually laughed a little then. He felt so light. _Perhaps only one thing_. He thought of the blush color he felt whenever he was around Damianos.

The lightness was gone a moment later.

His uncle had him by the jaw then, squeezing hard— _he is trying to force your mouth open_.

Laurent clenched tight.

 _Gods, these are the worst of all_. These raw memories did not seem to fade with time. Once again he was dropped into the pit of it: _he was desperate, weak, and fourteen. He was naked in the halls of his own goddamn museum, the safety of it bombed to pieces around him and his uncle was TRYING TO FORCE HIS MOUTH OPEN._

It took all of his concentration not to lose himself in the seemingly endless oil-colored vortex of nights. His uncle’s displeased voice cut through the haze of it and made everything a little worse.

“You ungrateful little thing.” He whispered. “We had an _arrangement_. I would let you be and in return,” he squeezed Laurent’s jaw until his teeth were grinding together, “in return, you would cease your little attempts to get what is _mine_.”

“It’s not—.”

His uncle shoved him back, surprising strength in his lean arms. Laurent massaged his jaw wondering if it would bruise. Somehow the pain fought back the memories and he had the sense of mind to glare.

“No use lying to me. I know of your little outings at the bar with that group. I know that enormous Akielon comes to your apartment and spends the night,” he said and the silk of his voice had a distinct edge, “One might wonder what it is you trade for his loyalty to you.”

“I don’t know,” Laurent whispered more to himself than to his uncle; for whatever goddamn reason, an Akielon king had sprung out of his fountain and decided that Laurent was worthy of his friendship and protection. Perhaps… “I make him laugh.”

The thought of Damianos’ laugh had him suffused with something warm and his uncle must have seen it.

“Please. A man like that? I am sure he is taking his…pound of flesh. I also happened to see your friend Jord leaving the museum this afternoon with his peachy little boyfriend.” Laurent hardened again. The warmth was gone. “A shame what happened to his face. If he is associated with you…who knows what kind of horrors might happen to him next. The city is a dangerous place. Next time someone might slice up his body or cut that baby face off entirely.”

Laurent heard the screaming in his ears and he could have vomited on the floors of the museum.

“As if you have played fair.” He said, forcing some of the cold into his voice, “The one who gives order to the executioner holds half the blame.”

His uncle’s smile was brittle. “So…you intend to be saucy. I thought we had gotten that out of you.”

“I’m not afraid.” _So this was war then? The détente is over? Fool, he never wanted you to live in peace away from him. He wants you living in loneliness and fear. He wants that hold on your life until one of you dies. I will not die by you._

His uncle smiled again and there was cruelty in it, the stroke before the slap. “Such a shame. I had hoped we could both come to an agreement about living in the city.”

“We will never come to an agreement so long as you visit your ‘wards’.” He felt sick even calling them that. “Or continue to threaten my…f-the people close to me.”

The floodgates broke.

He could feel it inside of him, walled up behind a careful dam where the reserves sometimes spilled out. He had created this block on himself the day after he had run from Jord and Aimeric but it had worn down and now he was filled with the fire of righteous anger. He felt that he must be pulsing gold in response.

 _Fire. Determination. Fight._ Fight _goddamnit_.

His uncle must have seen his resolve burning bright because he pulled something out of his back pocket before Laurent could speak again. Laurent recognized the heavy cream envelope with it’s broken seal. If he were to pull out the contents, it would reveal a glossy black invitation with a signature written in silver pen. Laurent wondered which of the curators had been so blinded by the cash that they had given him one.

“I intend to come to your little soiree. I’m sure that your coworkers would consider another sizeable donation worthy of renaming one of the wings.” His dark blue eyes were burning too. _Jealousy. Anger. Cruelty. Fight_. “I was considering the Akielon Art Exhibit,” Laurent remembered the the bronze plaque on the library he had loved; there was another, softer grip again on his bruised cheeks, a thumb nearly pushing past his lips, “A generous concession for my beloved nephew.”

And then, blissfully, he was gone, taking all the air in the room with him.

Laurent was glad he was gone so he could not see the legs nearly give way as Laurent stumbled backwards and eased himself into sitting down.

He was falling, falling, falling down a familiar hole, slippery as oil, ugly and poisonous as the stuff. He could barely breathe, a feeling like a collar or chains around his neck. _Fuck, fuck._ He would take any horrible memory over these ones. The memory of the plates shattering, of his father leaving, of hearing of Auguste’s death, even of holding his mother as she passed away. _Some fucking piece of work you are, that the death of your family is not even your worst memory. Shit not even in the top ten._

The top ten had him feeling ill in an actually-vomit-across-the-floors way and he put his head between his knees to attempt and have it pass. He retched slightly, remembering the feeling of hands on him, nearly pushing into his mouth.

He did not know how long he sat still.

“Boss?” He looked up, with watery eyes to see Lazar standing nearby with unusual hesitancy in his stance.

“How long have you been standing there?” Laurent asked, nearly drooling with the need to vomit.

“About ten seconds now. Enough to see you aren’t dead. I came to tell you that the cameras are down again, testy fuckers. You alright?”

“Do I look alright?”

“It’s amazing how you can look like shit and still be smoking hot.”

Laurent laughed at that and nearly threw up. “Shit.”

“Want some medicine?”

“No thank you.”

“Water.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bottle of griva?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Want me to grab Damianos?” He offered.

“What makes you say that?” Laurent half felt his dander rise, but the other part of him wanted Damianos next to him so badly that he could have screamed.

Lazar shrugged, a toothpick sliding from his fingers into his mouth. “Because you are at ease with him? Because Akielons are all slabs with warm, delicious chests and python arms that are perfect for squeezing? Because I’m shit at consoling people, especially my cast-iron boss? Take your damn pick.”

Laurent looked up at him and did see that some of his bravado had faded in the face of raw human emotion. “Fine. Call him in.”

“Thank fucking god.” Lazar turned to leave but then stopped. His jade colored eyes were actually serious for once. “I…we’ve all seen some shit. I…” his face tinted to match his eyes for a moment, “I’ve seen some sick, twisted bastards, Akielon and Veretian, and I swear to the gods I wasn’t eavesdropping but I have to say, that guy you were with is one of the most unnerving fuckers I’ve ever seen. I can smuggle anything to wherever you want. If you want a body dumped in the sea…you cut a check and I’ll make sure it’s never found.”

“Duly noted. Thank you, Lazar.” Laurent said, offering a wan smile. In a way he did feel better.

But when Lazar left, Laurent thought of losing him too. His whistles and rakish grin, the loving way he looked at Pallas, the deference intermingled with flirtation replaced with blood on concrete. The cruelty of his uncle’s influence touching on Pallas and Lazar and Jord and Aimeric, possibly Charls and Makedon and Halvik and Kashel leaving him utterly alone was too much to bear. His hands shook at all of the people he stood to lose.

“Laurent!”

His voice was the first wave of warmth and then Laurent felt hands on his face: warm, large, and calloused, cupping his cheeks gently and turning his face to make sure he was safe. _Safe…_

Damianos looked at him with obvious concern. “Laurent, are you alright?” The modern Veretian was surprising, “You are blue. Frightened. Are you alright?” His thumb was caressing the tender skin where his uncle had manhandled him. Damianos saw him flinch and his face became furious. “Who—?”

“Damianos.” Laurent leaned into his hands. Fingertips dug into his hair and it felt so good that he thought he might dissolve.

“You are unharmed?” His voice relaxed immediately.

“I am…better now.”

“Thank the gods.” Damianos said, continuing to tilt his head gently as if searching to make sure there were no injuries. He was so gentle, Laurent made foolish, split-second decisions.

“My uncle was here,” He whispered and he felt Damianos’ hands shake on his face, tremble with anger and he felt even safer than before. His uncle could never hope to compete with this man. “He is going to attend the Gala. He has bought himself an inviation and he’s going to make a donation so I have to see his goddamn name every time I come into work.” The more he spoke, the more hysterical he became, his breath coming shallow and his nails digging into Damianos’ hands. “He’s going to haunt me for this, going to make this place hell. I’ll have to leave, I’ll have to go before…before…something _terrible_ happens again.” His life was just filled with terrible things and he had begun to sink into them when he felt thumbs rubbing the corners of his lips so that he ceased his chatter.

“I will not let him.” Damianos leaned forward to press his head against Laurent’s. “I will kill him if he comes. I will not let him do anything to you.”

“This is not…it’s not your time in ancient Akielos.” Laurent shook his head slowly, “You cannot just murder anyone who displeases you.”

“I will do it.” Damianos said and there was no bluff in his tone. “I—things will remain undone until I see him from this earth. I will not…” There was a brief flash of pain across his face before he could catch himself and Laurent squeezed his wrist. “I cannot return to my time, to my kingdom if I know he can torture you further.” His eyes were so bright and earnest. “I cannot—.”

Laurent hated in that moment, thinking that Damianos would leave him alone.

_What shall I do? Who will stay with me? Make me laugh? I…_

Split second decisions and Laurent cupped Damianos’ face in his hands. He moved—not without some regret—out of Damianos’ grasp and closer than he had ever been before.

Laurent stood as tall as he could and kissed Damianos’ bottom lip. He suckled it very lightly, doing what he had always imagined doing to the men who had modeled for those beautiful statues in his collection. Recently they had all taken on the image of Damianos.

Then he stepped back, a riot of timidity and joy and arousal mixing to wildness in his mind. He was sure he was blushing.

Damianos stared at him, his eyes never wavering from Laurent’s face.

“What?” Laurent demanded, even more self-conscious now that Damianos had not given him some sort of wild reaction. “I…I had thought—.” He could not even get out what foolish thing he had been thinking about because Damianos had covered the distance between them in one giant step and had Laurent’s cheeks in his hands. Laurent tilted his head up for easy access and parted his mouth.

_Kissing. He was kissing Damianos of Akielos. He was so fucked._

_Damianos had experienced a plethora of emotions in a single afternoon._

_Though he was pleased that Laurent was reconnecting with old friends, he was not sure if he cared for the two of them kissing Laurent so easily on the cheeks. He had often contemplated giving this type of greeting when he came to visit Laurent for dinner: pressing his lips tenderly on either cheek and perhaps feeling Laurent’s lips brush against his own skin._

_Jealousy._

_It was unbecoming for a king and he fought it back so that he might extend a friendly greeting to Jord and Aimeric._

_Then when Lazar had come looking for him at a jog with the red of his aura interlaced with the pale gray of his panic, Damianos had felt his fear. Men like Lazar were usually so unfazed by everything and anything, that their fear should cause real alarm. Damianos reacted accordingly when he heard that Laurent was associated with that kind of panic._

_Fear._

_He had run in to find Laurent washed out under a halo of stark, pale blue and his head in his hands. Damianos would have burned the world for him in that moment. He would have done most anything to see the blue abate and the gold and blush return, but all he could do was cradle Laurent’s head in his hands._

_There were no visible injuries aside from very faint bruising on the cheeks._

_When he heard that Laurent’s foul remaining family member had menaced him alone in the museum, Damianos was ready to hunt the man down and snap his neck over the leg of a chair. He had nearly gone mad in that moment, the world darkening to a black tunnel._

_Rage._

_Gods, he could taste the blood of it on his tongue._

_But all of those emotions paled to insignificance to the one he felt when Laurent kissed him._

_Damianos had never kissed someone in a museum before but he found it to be a wholly wonderful experience. With the sunset dying Laurent’s skin orange-gold and the quiet serenity of the place, Damianos felt as though they were the only two people in the entire city._

_Damianos touched him the way he had dreamed of: cupped his head and stroked the short hairs at Laurent’s nape, followed the length of his spine with his palms and pressed gently against his waist, kissed him until Damianos swore he could taste the colors of Laurent’s joy on his tongue._

_When they broke apart, both of them had giggled with their daring. Kissing in the workplace, being paid to delight in kissing each other._

_“Thank god the cameras are down again.” Damianos had whispered into the soft skin where Laurent’s jaw met his ear. “I would not wish to share this view.”_

_“Too sweet.” Laurent murmured and Damianos watched as Laurent bit at his shiny bottom lip._

_He kissed Laurent throughout the rest of the day. Kissed him while he was fetching his things to go home, kissed his cheeks while they walked down the street, kissed his neck while he was preparing dinner, held the young man on lap and kissed him until his cheeks matched the halo above his head._

_Damianos could kiss him forever._

_Laurent had fallen asleep against him during their most recent movie and Damianos alternated between watching and kissing Laurent’s forehead. This lovely, funny, wicked little thing._

_Adoration. Desire. Possessiveness. Love._

 


	10. 10. Please Understand, I Have Fallen for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More kisses! More love! And Laurent regretting that he ever forced Damen to wear clothes to bed haha!  
> It's the day of the gala and let me say I had so much fun looking at the outfits, menus, and decorations for the Met Gala in New York. I would love to go someday because my god is it opulent...A lot of it I could see the Veretians loving a lot as well haha!  
> In any case, we are only 3 chapters away from done in this story and then I can finish up my Big Bang fic and start a new one ;) We're in the home stretch y'all! Enjoy!

**10\. Please Understand, I Have Fallen for You**

When Laurent woke up in the morning of the gala, the first thing he did was to turn on the warm, firm slab of muscle that was serving as his mattress and to kiss Damianos on the chin. The rasp of his black stubble was particularly pleasing to Laurent.

One lazy, sleepy eye opened and Damianos’ cheeks dimpled as he smiled through waking. “Laurent. Do it again.” He begged in a whisper.

Laurent kissed his dimple and Damianos grumbled about that, curling himself around Laurent until Laurent was squeezed comfortably behind a vice of red-brown muscles. He wriggled a little as the scratch of Damianos’ chin traveled from his forehead to his eyelids to his cheeks and jaw, down his neck and back to his lips. He kissed like he was worshipping with his lips.

His kisses had the same deep, honey sweetness as his voice and Laurent found he was becoming helplessly addicted to them.

But kissing was all they had done in two weeks since the first explosive time. Shallow, gentle kisses, rarely much tongue and never below the collarbone. Even now Damianos’ mouth snaked dangerously close to the collar of Laurent’s pajama shirt.

“ _Wait_.”

Damianos stopped immediately; that was another good thing about his love, he gave and stopped when asked without question. His eyes were still half hazy with sleep and adoration as he looked at Laurent’s face and wondered perhaps what error had occurred. He did not look up at the colors but Laurent knew he would have found them a confusing mottle of deep reddish pink and the purest ice blue.

He was so beautiful in that moment with his hair in a wild black tangle and one dimple threatening to show at any moment that Laurent wondered to himself why he didn’t just let Damianos continue and ravish him in what was sure to be a long, slow, sweet process.

_I’m scared._

He was scared of intimacy, scared of having someone delve so deep inside his body that he would make helpless noises and feel things without any sort of control. He was just not ready yet.

“We have to get ready for tonight.” Laurent whispered kissing the corner of Damianos’ lips and the tip of his nose. “We cannot…spend all afternoon in bed.” Though he desperately wanted to.

“Tonight I will kiss you more. To celebrate.” Damianos promised, hugging Laurent once more before he rolled to the side, out of the bed entirely.

Laurent watched as the king stood up and stretched.

He had begun to regret his initial insistence that Damianos wear his black silk boxer shorts to bed, wanting desperately to see the full curve of his muscular buttocks. His shoulders bulged attractively and Laurent wished he could sculpt so that he might have saved this form in perfection for all time.

 _Imagine waking up to this view for the rest of your life_ …

Laurent bolted from the bed the moment Damianos turned back to face him and dashed into the bathroom before Damianos could see what kind of havoc was being wreaked on his nether regions.

A cool shower helped calm most of his body, but his heart still beat erratically, even as he stepped out to towel himself off.

Damianos was already in the kitchen by the time Laurent had emerged and they began plotting out their day as they cooked breakfast. The gala would demand their attention for the entire day, almost twelve hours of preparation, though they would not need to be in the museum until sunset.

“When will you go to Charls’?” Laurent asked. Damianos’ suit was there and Laurent was excited to see him in the finished product.

“Midday. He says he will help me get ready and we will meet you at the museum.”

“I will be there at six.” Laurent said, his hands shaking slightly from anticipation. He thought of all the things that needed to be done, all the things that could go wrong and…

He felt a warm hand running through the fine hairs at the base of his neck and he shivered from the good feeling of it. Damianos must have seen the colors change because he kept massaging Laurent’s scalp.

“Relax, relax…”

“I may be physically unable to.” Laurent joked as he leaned into the touch.

Damianos moved his hands down to Laurent’s shoulders and used his thumbs to try and untangle the knots in Laurent’s muscles there. Laurent’s muscles liquefied so quickly that he almost dropped their plates of eggs.

Damianos kissed his neck before helping him take their food to the table.

“May I leave some of my things here?” Damianos asked through a mouthful of breakfast.

The meaning was implicit and it made Laurent shiver with delight: _Damianos was coming over again after the gala. He was going to spend another night in Laurent’s bed. They would greet another morning together and…maybe, just maybe Laurent would be able to overcome his mental block and allow Damianos to kiss further down than his nipples._

Laurent thought about it and became warmer to the idea. As Damianos was putting on his boots in preparation to leave, Laurent almost pulled him back down by the collar of his shirt so he could be dragged back to the bedroom.

Damianos smiled at him and Laurent’s resolve cracked a little.

“I will see you tonight.” He kissed Laurent’s lips long and gentle, before pulling back to look at Laurent’s face. “ _Kaloskagathos_.” And then he was gone, taking all of the air in the room with him.

_Smooth fucker._

Laurent knew what Damianos had called him and he felt the full weight of the compliment. _Kaloskagathos. The perfect man._

 

Laurent was ready at five PM. Out of the garment bag in the back of his closet he brought out his best suit, also purchased from Arnoul and Sons. Black and fitted with a navy vest underneath, a dark blue pocket square with silver flecks, and silver cuff links, Laurent had chosen it with severity in mind but it only served to make him look like a star-prince.

His blond hair he had slicked back and he looked at his reflection in the mirror in his room. Normally he tried to hide the mismatched colors of his eyes but he knew Damianos adored the slightly different blues. And the stark colors of his suit made it glaringly obvious.

 _I want to show off_ , he realized with a fluttering heartbeat.

He chastised himself for being so easy to sway but the thought of Damianos’ delighted smile and the honey-wine of his ‘ _kaloskagathos_ ’ had Laurent’s renegade heart running wild. It seemed that the fire that had reignited in him after the first visit with Jord did not only extend to his desire for revenge.

He had been having vivid dreams. He was white hot and he wanted it to go somewhere. After years of making himself as cold and unwelcoming as ice this was…new.

 _Someone needed to be killed or fucked. Otherwise he would go insane_.

He tried to shake the fire out of him and smoothed himself before preparing to leave. A few spritzes of light cologne and he was ready to go to work for the evening.

Laurent called a cab for the event and he did not even have to tell the driver where to go. He knew by the fine suit and the fact that this was one of New Artes’ most exclusive events for the entire year. Perhaps he was a little confused as to why Laurent would be going in a taxi cab rather than a glossy black rented car.

Laurent had him pull it around to the back of the museum; he did not dare go in through the front where a long carpet had already been laid out on the stairs and flocks of reporters were beginning to gather.

Another side effect of war with his uncle, Laurent hated having his picture in any form of traceable media. Better to climb in through the cargo bay than to have ten thousand flash bulbs going off in his face.

The cargo bay was cool and silent, still smelling pleasantly of sawdust and concrete and balsa wood, and Laurent used the familiar surroundings to calm his nerves before he wandered out into the fray.

He took the enormous freight elevator up, smoothing his jacket for the thousandth time before exiting the simple back rooms into the bespangled glory of the museum entrance.

It was beautiful inside the museum atrium.

The color palette they had chosen this year was black, gold, and that ethereal white that flashed silver under certain lights. Fake trees with black branches had been outfitted carefully with silvery-green leaves and Laurent saw a snake sculpture in golden leaf tucked amongst the trees.

Nets of golden lights hung from the ceilings like stars. On the way into the Veretian section of the museum, massive frothing bouquets of white flowers had been fastened into a scented canopy and then splashed with droplets of black and gold. Live fireflies flashed in between the petals like stars going out.

Laurent’s chosen centerpiece leading into the Akielon Art exhibit was, of course, an enormous fountain in matte white with glass globes floating on the surface of the water and shimmering black and silver constellations painted lovingly on the bottom of the bowl.

All nerves gone, he could not wait to position himself by the fountain and watch people’s expressions as they entered into the atrium to witness the general opulence. He could not wait to see Jord and Aimeric and Lazar’s reactions as they would remember Vere as it was before the war.

 _Auguste would like it_.

Laurent looked at the beauty of the place and felt a precious bubble of pride in the pit of his stomach. It looked Veretian, it reminded him of home, and it was beautiful. Gods, it was beautiful.

He stood in the atrium for a moment, smelling the flowers, listening to the bubbling sound of running water, and generally just enjoying a memory of the past that was not deeply painful when something caught his attention.

And fucking _held_ it.

Laurent felt a little faint as he saw Damianos walk down the hallway to the stairs that led from the second level to the main atrium. _Surely this was the reason the stairs had been installed in the first place_.

Damianos had somehow managed to have his long hair look shining and silken as dark water. His suit from Arnoul and Sons had been finished by this time and it fit him as well as a suit could fit any man.

The black was slimming on him, the violet and gold of his tie and pocket square giving a needed pop of color. He looked like a young king in his clothes, someone with wealth and power.

It looked so effortless on him, he wore it with such casual confidence, that Laurent’s mouth went dry.

It sounded cliché, but Laurent now understood how crowds could melt away when set in comparison to someone beloved. Though there were some other people in their finery milling about in the atrium, they might as well have been stationary objects for all they commanded Laurent’s attention. His heart was beating to the slow tempo of Damianos’ leisurely steps and it skipped a beat when Damianos noticed his gaze and smiled at him.

 _Oh gods, oh fuck_ …

“Laurent.” Entirely too soon Damianos was in front of him, smelling of musky, expensive cologne and sunlight.

“Hello.” He whispered, sounding like a lovestruck maiden to his own ears. “Do my colors give me away?”

Damianos looked up over his head and laughed before he could catch himself. “It is the color on your cheeks that gave you away.” With careful hands, he lifted Laurent’s left wrist to his lips and kissed it. “I have been assigned to protect the finest art this evening, so you will find me readily by your side.”

Laurent laughed, but it was breathy. “You have been learning flirtations from Lazar again.”

“You can certainly question him at length when he arrives.” Damianos grinned and several people around him took notice. “Come, we should get wine while it is still available.” Their fingers linked casually as they walked up the stairs together and Laurent thought his heart might burst for joy.

This early, there were only a small group of people in the exhibits but they would cluster around during each exhibit opening. Laurent’s had gotten the prime spot of a midnight opening so he still had quite some time to prepare in case there were any emergencies.

Charls accosted the two of them almost immediately, looking sharp and eccentric in a dark green suit with a handsome tweed vest underneath and a golden pin in the shape of a lark through the lapel. “Laurent!”

“Charls, good evening. You look dapper.”

“Laurent oh thank the gods you’re here!” _Of course there was an emergency_. Damianos smiled as the man hopped about like the museum was about to be destroyed. “The cameras are being fixed right now and the caterers need a place to set up the fondue and the donor from Sicyon is looking for you. I—.”

“Charls, by the gods, must you interrogate me the moment I arrive?” Laurent complained, nearly laughing. “We have fine security, put your faith in Damianos. Surely they will find a place for the fondue table, so long as it does not block any pieces and I will make my rounds shortly to network. Now…please breathe.”

Charls nodded and took a few shaky breaths. “Damianos?”

“Wine would help you.” Damianos offered.

“Maybe so.”

They returned with two full glasses of wine and one empty one that he kept. Laurent was once again positive of Damianos’ high birth due to his choice of wine. “Gods, this is good.” He said quietly by way of compliment. “Where is yours? Did you drink it in one gulp again?”

“I sipped it.” Damianos whispered teasingly.

“You wicked thing.” Laurent said bumping his hip against Damianos’.

Charls’ return was a much less welcome sight as he looked as though he was going to ask Laurent about any number of easily solvable problems. “Tell Charls I am going to wait in the Atrium for my guests. I he can message me with any issues.”

Damianos nodded imperceptibly and—when Charls was pulled aside by a guest—leaned over to kiss Laurent’s cheek. “I will come to your side when I can.”

He must have known that Laurent was going to go to make sure his uncle would not be coming in and saw the flash of blue accordingly. The kiss did help his nerves a little. Perhaps his uncle was bluffing, as he ignored the small voice in his head.

 _Uncle_ never _bluffed._

Still, having a man built like a god by his side was a great comfort and he knew Damianos would be at his side in a moment if he saw that oil-like essence broiling above the crowd.

He slipped through the crowds and walked back to the atrium with only a slight feeling of trepidation.

Lazar and Pallas and the rum runners who had remained in the city were the first of his small group of invited guests to arrive. Their suits were decidedly less than crisp and Laurent smiled at the horror on the faces of the stuffier curators. Damianos had rejoined him at this point and grinned widely at their praise of his new suit in comparison to theirs.

Pallas, the only one in a proper suit, looked enchanted by the surroundings and squeezed Lazar’s hand, while Lazar looked like he was experiencing the same nostalgia as Laurent.

“So beautiful!” Pallas exclaimed to him, crushing Laurent in a hug.

“Reminds me of the fancy places I used to look in on when I was a brat.” Lazar agreed, leaning forward to kiss Laurent’s cheeks. Damianos glared a little at the direct contact of lips to cheek but endured the same treatment.

“There’s wine upstairs.” Laurent told Lazar, “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

“Boss, you beautiful soul, I am three drinks ahead of you.” And he pulled open his jade green satin vest to reveal a silver flask tucked into a secret pocket. “I have one in my right sock as well.”

“Don’t break anything in my exhibit.” Laurent warned.

Lazar winked on his way inside, trailing his fingers over the glass globes in Laurent’s fountain on his way in.

Makedon arrived not long after and though his suit was nicer he looked much more uncomfortable in the opulent surroundings.

He looked relieved to see Laurent and was even more pleased to hear that some familiar faces would be inside.

Halvik and Kashel came not long after, the two of them beautiful and imposing in their cocktail dresses. Their dark, solid forearms were on display, cobalt blue Vaskian runes and patterns tattooed onto their skin. Laurent felt that there should be an art exhibit based on the Vaskian tattoos.

People cut a wide swath for the two of them, as they did not appear to be the type to move aside for anyone.

Aimeric and Jord were the last of his invited guests to arrive, just when Laurent was about to abandon hope that they would attend. Jord was obviously wearing his best suit but it was not tailored to him and he wore it with a great deal of self-consciousness. Aimeric was more as ease with his clothes but he had done his best to hide his face behind his curls. Laurent almost did not see them come in. 

But then Aimeric turned his head up to see the familiar fairy lights that might have adorned his ancestral home in Fortaine and his expression glowed. The lights bleached out his scars and Jord could not look away from his lover. They did not see him approach.

"Oh Laurent." Aimeric kissed his cheeks with true feeling. "It's  _beautiful_. Truly it reminds me of Fortaine during the Iris Festival. You did this all?"

"You cannot be serious." Laurent laughed at the idea of decorating such a massive atrium by himself. Jord started laughing too and Aimeric blushed with embarrassment before he too broke down in giggles. 

"If anyone is stubborn enough to do it, it is you." Jord said by way of defense. 

"Then you will find I have created an exhibit, decorated the entire museum, and cooked enough food for two thousand guests in the span of a single evening." Laurent responded and felt Damianos brush against his elbow. "Are you not guarding the art?" 

"I am watching." He whispered though he only appeared to be interested in Laurent's face at the moment. "I come to say hello." 

“He certainly inspires confidence.” Aimeric whispered to Jord as Damianos and Laurent led them to where the food and wine could be ordered. As Laurent recalled, Aimeric was a rubbish cook, and Jord’s eyes lit up accordingly when he saw the spread that was offered.

Lobster soaked in saffron and dripping with garlic butter was Laurent’s particular favorite from the menu though he also ordered three chocolate almond creams with a tiny bit of lemon jelly in the center.

“Sweet.” Damianos teased him.

“What?”

“Eat more. Your kisses will be sweet.”

Aimeric must have heard and coughed on his spoonful of butternut squash soup. Laurent blushed furiously in response. He did not protest as Damianos pushed another one of the creams past his lips.

He wanted his kisses sweet. He wanted Damianos to crave no other taste.

 

The evening was progressing beautifully.

A new exhibit was opened at the top of every hour, beginning at 9 PM, to generous applause and the scores of guests sweeping through to admire the newest batch of artwork under the museum’s acquisition. Laurent enjoyed seeing what his fellow curators had created and he grew ever more antsy as his time approached.

At least his uncle had not been seen amongst the crowds.

With only twenty minutes before his newest exhibit was unveiled, he was so nervous and excited that he felt it would be better to separate himself for the crowd and perhaps wait inside, where it was dark and silent and his pieces waited in quiet opulence.

Damianos watched him as he prepared to slip under the delicate silver chain blocking off the unopened areas of the museum. He was by the doorway in a moment, looking hesitantly up at Laurent’s colors.

“Are you—?”

“I’m fine.” Laurent said. It wasn’t a lie. “I just want to have the exhibit to myself for a moment. I will wait inside to greet everyone and explain my choices. I hate trying to explain myself.”

“I will come to you soon.” Damianos whispered and rubbed Laurent’s mouth with his thumb. “Just in case.”

“Ok.”

Laurent accepted a soft kiss before going down the hall to his exhibit. He paused only once. Outside the wing of the Veretian Paintings.

Laurent felt drawn to the place, which was highly unusual as he never really cared to go near it and revisit the memories it brought. At least it was empty since the grand unveiling would not be for another hour.

He never liked to go in. Except for this exact moment. During this important night of his life, he wanted to go in. Even so he held his breath for the first few seconds in the empty hall.

All the paintings looked down somberly at him, as if unimpressed by the last of their lineage. Laurent ignored them.

There were only three he cared to see.

His father was stern but Auguste and his mother were gentle and smiling down at him. There was a lump in his throat as he thought of what he wished to say to them first. He put his fingertips on the dried, cool surface of the canvas.

“I…I wish you were here to see what I have done. I’m sure you would find it beautiful.” His pain and regret was beyond tears. He wanted to sink to the floor. “I may not be the prince of Vere…but I am a good curator. I would…I would give it all back to have you here with me.”

The silence was overwhelming and Laurent recovered himself after a long moment.

There would be no response, as much as he wished for one and within an hour or so there would be scores of people coming to bask in their benevolent gazes. At least for this moment, his family belonged to him.

“I found someone who loves me.” He whispered,. “He is so good and gentle. I think you all would like him even though he is Akielon. I’m happy. I swear. I will try to live happily.”

Only ten minutes to his exhibit opening and Laurent turned to leave the hall of Veretian Paintings.

It was more of a feeling than anything else. Laurent felt as though his spine was trembling and that it was suddenly cooler in the room. He was a child of war. He was sensitive to danger.

He turned around very slowly.

“You are not allowed to be back here.”

“Am I not?” His uncle strolled out of the shadows casually running his hands over some of the palm fronds in a vase.

“What are you doing here?” He had not seen the man the entire night. Had he slipped in? Had he been waiting here the entire time? Lying in wait in hopes that Laurent would, at some point, come back to this spot?

"I told you I was coming." His uncle sounded almost hurt, though Laurent was adept now at hearing the cruel sarcasm beneath the notes of false sincerity. "Would I ever lie to you?" Laurent did not dignify that with a response but remained silent. "Your petulance is irritating."

"The fact that you still breathe irritates me," Laurent shot back, "it seems we both disappoint each other."

"Your man is not with you. The big Akielon brute."

Laurent smiled. 

Even when confronted by his uncle, the thought of Damianos was enough to give him a rush of warm bravery. The man was so enormous, so very good that Laurent could feel his presence like a tangible thing.

"No, he isn't right now." The meaning was implicit: he will come to my side at a moment's notice. 

"I had to wait until he detached himself long enough for us to—." 

There was very little fear at the thought of being alone with this man and Laurent had to struggle not to laugh in his uncle's face. "You can say you're frightened of him." His uncle stopped, smile gone, eyes flashing, and Laurent pressed on. "Gods knew I was at first. He's an imposing man. He's bigger than you, taller; even three men couldn't move him. He broke Govart's arm like he was snapping a twig. Your best man went down and shattered like a sheet of glass. You're right to be scared." 

 _He was terrified of Damianos, wasn't he?_  Laurent was light with the thought. _That's why he waited for me to be alone. Damianos is a king. He doesn't fear anyone's money or power or strength. And my uncle can tell._

His uncle's voice, when he found it was soft and dangerous. "You never did have the best sense of self-preservation.”

“It will be the museum then?” Laurent hissed. He would fight it tooth and nail. “That’s what you want?”

Any charm melted away.

He knew Laurent was not fooled by it and frustration over losing control had his true fury leaking through. “Laurent, darling, I want you crushed underfoot. Out of Marlas, out of New Artes where I never can be burdened by your presence again. I’d prefer to remember you as you were,” a soft tone had Laurent feeling queasy, “sweet. Pliant.”

“No.” Laurent’s veneer cracked only slightly, but it was enough. “I won’t let you have any more sway on my life.”

“It’s going to be done.” His canines shimmered in the low light, like a predator’s fangs. “I have already set aside the funds to have your entire wing named in my honor. Take heart. I’ll have the money gifted in your brother’s name.”

Laurent felt like his uncle had punched him in the chest hard enough to shatter his sternum.

He took instinctive steps backwards until the curve of his ass hit the solid edge of one of the many heavy vases that lined the walls. He gripped the cool lip of the ceramic to steady himself and hopefully gain calm from the solid feeling of it against his hands and hips. _Gods, if I had the form of Damianos I could simply lift this vase up and beat him to death with it._

Laurent knew then that he was going to die.

He would not let his uncle get away with this. He had already determined that he was going to kill his uncle and a thousand murder fantasies were rushing through his mind at an alarming rate. A quick thrust of the arm to the neck and his uncle’s hyoid bone would shatter, pulverizing his windpipe and possibly his spine.

But his uncle’s men would know that he was responsible and they had their orders.

Laurent would be murdered in his apartment before the courts could even read the first page of the paperwork returning his inheritance to him. But he could see no other alternative. His hands shook on the lip of the vase.

 _It is what you’ve always dreamed of. You can go and be with Auguste and mother. And when Damianos returns_ —that alone gave him a little pain— _you can be with him too._ And Laurent had begun to accept the idea, even welcome it. He thought of sinking into the cool canvas of the painting, of being reunited with the people he loved…

But before his uncle could get within striking distance, before his muscles could even begin to tense with the idea of hitting to kill, there was movement in the dark behind his uncle’s back.

At first, a foolish part of Laurent’s mind thought it was a panther and he froze with fear accordingly. But then he remembered that panthers had not been in these parts for a hundred years at least. He could hardly be blamed either. The form was large, dark, and deadly silent, slipping through the shadows with practiced ease that should have been difficult with such a form. _This is something used to stalking and killing._

His uncle must have seen something in his eyes, a quick spasm of fear before the recognition took hold, and he was in the process of turning when the mountainous shadow descended upon him.

“ _You_ —.” His uncle was unable to finish what exactly he was thinking the moment he saw Damianos towering behind him. _He looks so small_.

In a movement as graceful as a dancer’s, unencumbered by his fine suit, Damianos had Laurent’s uncle’s chin and head between his hands with a grip that must have been like a vise. His biceps bulged through the cloth of his jacket and his upper body jerked, twisting the head rapidly at an unnatural angle.

There was a sound of bone rasping against bone—almost like a crunch—and the words died in his uncle’s throat as his legs crumpled beneath him.

 _Dead_.

 

_If fate would not intervene then Damianos had decided for himself after seeing Laurent in his suit that evening: he would not be parted from the beautiful, witty curator come hell or high water._

_He was so delighted, so filled with joy and anticipation that his halo remained a softly beating crown of solid rosy gold. It reflected off his hair and even on his suit when Damianos came close to him and so Damianos endeavored to keep Laurent within touching distance._

_And gods, the Gala!_

_Damianos had known every luxury of his time, but this was something wholly spectacular._

_The fairy lights and the gilded flowers and the trees with silver leaves…he felt as though he was a child again, pretending that he was in the realm of the gods. But this had been all too real._

_He marveled at Laurent’s attention to detail but made small changes of his own._

_Perhaps it had been lost to time, but banquets such as these required a small offering to the gods so that they did not take it as a sign of vanity and visit misfortune on the people who threw the party. He did not begrudge Laurent, though surely he would blush and make amends if Damianos were to tell him._

_He found a live plant in a massive vase of carved malachite and offered two familiar fruits: a glass of the fine red wine poured into the soil and a tiny stoppered bottle of virgin olive oil meant to be used as a garnish on salads he set amongst the leaves. As he whispered his modest prayer, he wondered if even the gods had been destroyed by the war._

_In the moment it certainly seemed as though he had lost their favor._

_He had felt a pinprick of trepidation as Laurent disappeared into the back halls with only a small blush of blue to his halo and decided, after a few moments of introspection, that he wanted to be with Laurent and see what color he would turn when his beautiful exhibit was revealed to the public._

_But then he saw that cloud of oil blurring out its’ surroundings like poison._

_Beyond that he saw Laurent’s halo in that pale crystalline blue and Damianos moved without thinking. He had sworn a vow to himself and he was going to uphold it. No matter what manner of hell it would bring._

_The man’s jaw felt insignificant in his hands and it was no matter at all to snap his neck._

_Damianos felt no regret as the body went limp._

 


	11. 11. Oh, Take Me Back to the Night We Met

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite, oft-ignored aspects of Laurent's personality in King's Rising is his sacrificial, split-second, foolish gut instinct to make snap decisions in order to protect Damen (think Kingsmeet, releasing Jokaste, etc). In any case I bet you all hoped you could see this through without any of my bullshit.  
> NOPE.  
> You all are going to hate me, yet again haha!

**11\. Oh, Take Me Back to the Night We Met**

Damianos let him drop, his mouth curling up with distaste as if even touching the man for a moment longer was too foul to contemplate.

The entire ordeal had taken less than five seconds.

It took twice as long for Laurent to remember to breathe. It came out in shaky bursts and it seemed to break the spell holding him in place. He released the lip of the vase and staggered forward. “ _Damianos_.”

“Laurent.” Damianos sidestepped the dead body completely. He seemed alarmingly at ease with corpses at his feet. His hands were at Laurent’s cheeks, on his neck, in his hair. _So gentle_. “You are not hurt?”

“You killed him.” Laurent whispered, still unable to believe it. “You broke his neck.”

“Yes.” Damianos did not seem at all contrite, even glancing at the body as if contemplating to try and kill him again. “Yes. He is dead and the world is better for it.”

“He’s dead…he’s gone…I-I…”

“He will never put hands on you again.”

Laurent felt warm hands on his cheeks, cradling his head, surely feeling the erratic beat of his heart through the thin skin of his throat. Laurent tore his eyes from the dead form of his uncle to gather strength from Damianos.

Instead, he noticed the blinking light of the camera nearby and panic sent his mind into overdrive.

_He has to go, he has to get out of here. His DNA would be on the skin. His actions would have been caught on the museum camera._

_Laurent could not bear to think of Damianos’ fine, noble, beloved form snatched away in handcuffs. He would lose his mind if he saw Damianos wasting away behind prison bars._

_He had to get Damianos far, far away and only one idea came to mind._

“Come with me!” Laurent hissed, feeling cold sweat tracing down his tailbone as he grasped Damianos by the hand and yanked him through the dark halls.

His uncle he left without thought under the stern, disapproving gaze of his father.

Luckily there was a steady din of the people outside the exhibit so their heavy footsteps were obscured as Laurent pulled Damianos into the Akielon Art Hall to Laurent’s newest unopened exhibit.

The fountain was resting still and silent beneath the skylight and Laurent, as always was struck by just how gorgeous the piece was. He had asked Pallas to fill it with fresh water and the mirror-like disc on the surface reflected the dimmed lights and the diamond pinpricks of the stars above.

The gold veins of the marble glowed slightly, sparkling even in the low light, and Laurent and Damianos both stopped solid.

_How could he have ever thought that this thing was not magic? The rock oozed with magic, he could feel it in his bloodstream and wanted Damianos nowhere near the thing._

Even so, he fought back his fear and thought of the only thing that could be done to protect Damianos. To save him from—

Moving quickly, Laurent shoved Damianos towards the black lip of the fountain and he saw it pulse and shudder as he got close. The gold glowed a little brighter and Laurent tried to pretend he was not terrified of the thing.

Damianos stopped, horrified and Laurent tried to push him closer. “You must—Damianos you must get in. You have to ask them to take you back.”

“It does not work like that!” Damianos said. He turned and grasped Laurent by the forearms. For the first time his grip was so tight as to cause Laurent discomfort. “I-I do not know how they will call me back!”

“I will not see you imprisoned here for killing my uncle!” Laurent pleaded. “I think they _are_ calling you; the fountain is glowing!”

“It is glowing?” Damianos looked to Laurent and then the fountain, his expression caught between horror and amazement. When his attention was turned, Laurent took his chance. Only his adrenaline allowed him the strength to finally catch Damianos off-guard and use his defense skills to his advantage. With one firm shove he was able to knock Damianos backwards.

The man’s legs buckled against the lip of the fountain and he fell backwards into the fountain, water splashing up around him, though strangely not onto the floors. Laurent’s heart palpitated as the strips of gold pulsed to a near white the moment Damianos came in contact.

It hurt, it physically hurt him to realize that it was by his hand that Damianos would be sent back to his time. Damianos tried to get up despite his wet clothes and somehow Laurent knew that he would not be able to get out.

The decision had been made.

“Take him back!” Laurent almost shouted. “Please take him back!”

“Laurent!” Damianos sloshed forward and Laurent could not bring himself to look up and see the anguish on Damianos’ face. He could feel it, just as surely as Damianos could see the blue above his head.

He would not see the man he loved so much taken away forever, locked up so that he could never get home.

“Please take him.” Laurent pressed his hands against the fountain, sending his plea to anyone who would listen. _The animals carved on the side, the Sera, those protectors of Veretian children, Damianos’ mother, the fountain priestess, father, mother, Auguste, anyone._ “Please!”

“Laurent! Come—!”

The force of it knocked him backwards.

There was a sound of rushing water around him, as if he had been swallowed by a rogue wave and he swore that for a moment he had gone completely blind. Normally the type to get back up the moment he was knocked down, Laurent was so shocked that he simply lay where he had fallen and waited for the madness to pass. He wondered for a moment if he was dying.

When there was only ringing in his ears and the surroundings went dark behind his eyelids. Even when he cracked his eyes open, the colors blurred to a viscous amalgam of navy, violet and black interspersed with white flashes. He must have almost been blinded by the explosion that had just happened.

He stretched out his hand, looking for something solid to hold onto and his fingers found a familiar glossy surface.

It took him a few moments to even attempt to get to his feet and even then he staggered, his legs feeling jellied beneath him. Surely his tailbone and shoulder were bruised.

It was very quiet.

The world spun as he got to his feet and gripped the lip of the fountain to steady himself. Three deep breaths and he was able to recover enough to take stock of his surroundings.

It was dark in the exhibit, quiet, and—as Laurent quickly discovered when his vision cleared—empty. The security cameras, all of them, were beeping frantically from the system overload and Laurent knew the footage would be ruined. The fountain was empty, the water having settled back into a calm mirror. Laurent felt his heartbeat slow to a dull thump at the sight and the realization of what he had done.

“Damianos?” His voice cracked a little.

Damianos was gone, gone without a trace. There was nothing to show that he had ever been in the museum or in Laurent’s life, save a few drops of water sliding down the outer edges of the fountain. Laurent’s hands shook as he gripped the edge of the fountain and looked down into the basin.

“Damianos?”

Damianos was gone.

Laurent had pushed him to the fountain, had whatever powers that brought him to Laurent’s arms to take him back to his time. He was gone forever and Laurent had been the one to plead for it to be so.

He felt like he would be sick as he replayed his decisions.

 _You should have waited you fool. You should not have sent him back—no, they would have found out. They would have asked questions, seen the videos…He could not be forced to live the rest of his life on the run or in prison_.

Laurent replayed their final moments together and pain supplemented his sickness.

 _You did not get to say goodbye. You did not kiss him or hold him. Hold close the last time he said your name or touched your skin because there will be no more in the future. You should have gotten in the fountain. You should have gone with him. You should have returned with him through the fountain. They_ always _go back_.

“ _Damianos_!” Although it had been the right decision and he knew it in his heart, he felt painfully alone.

A quick series of things happened all at once.

Laurent sank to his knees at the edge of the fountain and the lights of the exhibit turned on, so that he could see his anguished expression in the water. He could not help himself and tears added to the spring water in the fountain as the doors opened and the first of the delighted guests began to enter.

The gold in the black marble had ceased to sparkle.

 

They discovered his uncle’s body at a quarter until one a.m.

The normally cool and unflappable curator of Veretian Art nearly fainted upon the discovery, but had enough common sense not to scream. Instead, he had run out to Charls and the two of them had gone white as the marble floors.

Luckily, they were able to push up the opening of a different exhibit while the police were called.

“No sense in startling the donors and ruining the evening for everyone.” Charls said, wringing his hands. He looked to each person with equal parts desperation and suspicion, as if wondering who amongst their guests were responsible.

“For the love of the gods, Charls someone is dead.” Laurent pretended to chastise but it lacked his normal conviction and bite. He felt nothing but deep and terrible numbness.

Of course the murder could not be kept secret for long, even if the police were forced to enter in through the cargo bay and rather than ruin the evening, most of the wealthy guests seemed exhilarated by the fictional quality of it. _A murder in a museum gala?_ Most of them had had enough wealth to flee to Patras during the war. It was clear to see the guests who had a much more familiar take on sudden, violent deaths.

Laurent was as unfeeling to the entire wave of excitement and terror as a block of stone.

He moved through the motions of being shocked, his body on auto-pilot but spirit withered inside of him. He did not feel much of anything until someone grasped him by the hand.

It was Kashel, her face neutral, but eyes brimming with concern. Halvik was close behind her and Laurent vaguely registered that Makedon was talking behind them with Jord and Pallas. Aimeric would not be far then.

“Laurent. Don’t freeze.” She whispered. At least that was what he thought she said. His Vaskian was rusty.

“Are you leaving?” He asked.

“We all are.” Halvik answered. “It is three a.m. The gala has finished.”

“Ah.”

“Will you go home with us? In the taxi?” Kashel asked.

After a long moment, Laurent nodded. He would not be responsible for cleaning up the event on a normal but the police had instructed everyone to leave things untouched so they could spend the night investigating and collecting evidence. They had instructed Charls that they would begin contacting the guests the next day. Laurent could go home if he wished.

The group of them left the museum together, Laurent slipping them out through the cargo bay so that they did not have to deal with the fresh round of reporters who had converged at the very mention of a murder.

Lazar, Pallas, Jord, and a nervous Aimeric were crowded into one headed back to Crepuscule while Laurent found himself sandwiched in the back of the second taxi between Halvik and Kashel with Makedon sitting up front.

He barely even twitched as Kashel took his hand and pushed up close to him.

She did it for privacy, he realized. “Laurent where did Damianos go?” She whispered in her accented Veretian. “Did he return?”

“ _Yes_.” Laurent’s response was all pain and he felt her squeeze his hand.

“Don’t freeze.” She ordered softly and Laurent could have sworn he saw Halvik nod. “The police will come and you must make yourself ice. Make yourself marble and do not let anyone touch Damianos.”

It did not even occur to him to wonder why Kashel knew Damianos needed protected. But something about her absolute faith in it brought back a little bit of the fire.

He would not sleep that night but he did wait in the darkness of his apartment, nursing that coal of rebellion until the police showed up at his door. The knock came at half past eight and by that time Laurent was in a simple white shirt and black slacks. He felt as though he had become a sheet of ice with a single throbbing spot of anger and determination resting heavy in the center of his chest.

“How may I help you?” He asked coldly the moment he opened the door.

The two inspectors behind the door seemed a little taken aback by his brusque tone but introduced themselves shortly as two of the men who were working on the murder in museum that night. Laurent allowed himself to be ushered into the police car and driven to their headquarters.

He waived his attorney rights and the cheap cup of coffee they offered him.

“I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible, if you mind.” Laurent said sitting down. He noticed one of the men seemed to be measuring the length of his legs as he crossed them. “I assume this has to do with the murder that happened in my museum last night?”

“Erm yes. We have been interviewing in groups due to the highly… social nature of the event. We regret to inform you that your uncle is the one who was murdered last night at your gala.”

Laurent kept his expression blank and that seemed to unnerve them even more.

“D-Do you have anything to say about it?” The other detective asked.

“He’s dead.” Laurent responded. “What would you like me to say?”

“He was found with his neck snapped in front of the portrait of your late family.”

“How very macabre.”

“How very incriminating.”

“Coincidental.” Laurent responded.

“We are just trying to exhaust all the leads.”

Laurent shrugged. “There should be video cameras in the museum.”

“The footage from last night appears to be unusuable. It is all static and white light.” Laurent thanked the Akielon gods for their protection of the two of them. He already knew that the footage was unusable; he had seen it himself and felt pain over his gut reactions to have Damianos leave. “There is DNA on your uncle’s neck but we have yet to match it to anyone. Would you simply…walk us through your night?”

Laurent indulged them, giving them the bare bones of his night and simply referring to Damianos as security. His main lie was that he had not gone to the Veretian Hall of Paintings but went straight to his exhibit to prepare. The detectives nodded, occasionally taking notes.

“Your DNA was found on one of the vases near your uncle’s body.”

“I work at the museum.” Laurent said sarcastically, “You’ll find my fingerprints on a great many things inside.”

“And you take self-defense classes weekly?”

“Yes. Why? Did my uncle die with defensive wounds?” He knew there were not.

“We…are not at liberty to disclose those details of the case.”

Another long silence and then: “There is a man we have had some difficulty in locating. A security guard you were close to?” Laurent swallowed the lump that suddenly materialized in his throat.

“I have not seen him since I opened my exhibit.” He worked hard to keep his tone even, “I had assumed your men had employed our security to help you out with your efforts.”

There was another round of awkward silence.

"You did not care for your uncle, did you?" The main investigator asked politely, "Your legal issues are well documented and," he casually flipped through the massive stack of papers in front of him, "extensive, to say the least."

"I did not think it was right for him to have access to such generous funds." Laurent replied frostily.

"And yet you conceded here to have him inherit the treasures of the Veretian crown, setting you to gain the funds upon his death. They do pass on to only blood in this case, otherwise it would go to—."

Laurent knew the regulations and interrupted. "Yes I know the succession by heart. And you should also take note in this little file that the only reason I conceded was because I was receiving rape and death threats, my apartment was broken into, and my friends badly assaulted. I reported each one to your department, as I recall, and my lawyers have copies if you have...misplaced them." He stared pointedly at the detectives and they shifted uncomfortably under his knowing gaze; he knew his uncle had police on the payroll. "You will also see that my formal complaints dropped dramatically after he inherited the crown funds of Vere." 

Nervous glances were exchanged. "Even so, you have quite a motive to want to see him dead?"

"Do I?" Laurent was feeling cold and dead inside. He was not willing to bend for anyone.

"The money."

"You men seem intelligent." Laurent fired back making sure disgust was clear in his tone, "You have probably done a lot of research on me since he is my uncle, since I inherit the money, since he died in my museum. Surely you would have seen my pay stubs from said museum. Seen my apartment and my bank account." They seemed to wilt in front of him. "I am in no desperate need of money, nor am I the only one who disliked my uncle. He was not...a decent person and I find I can rest easy knowing he will torture me no longer. I'm positive I'm not the only one who feels this way."

They must have sensed that Laurent was intelligent and firm with his alibi because the pen was lowered to the notepad in anticipation. "Anyone in particular come to mind? Even just as a remote possibility?" 

He abhorred their desperation and want for any suspect. His uncle should be left to rot and the killer hailed as a hero. 

“Of course. Some of his subordinates are highly unsavory men. I would look to them first. After I would look to the countless people he has ordered beaten and swindled; surely the list there will satisfy your discerning tastes. And finally you might inquire to the orphanages and schools he supports. I assume they are all catering to young boys with absent parents?” The detectives looked mortified and a little sick; _so they were not completely oblivious to some of his little pet projects_. Laurent would not spare them. “You might go in and tell the lot of them that their patron is dead and see the looks of relief in their eyes.”

No one seemed to care to make a counterpoint to his suggestions.

When the silence finally did break, the detectives sounded cowed in direct opposition to Laurent’s cool fury. “Can you think of a specific name?”

“As I said,” Laurent responded, “he has more enemies than he does money. You gentlemen have your work cut out for you.”

They must have sensed that their interrogations were no longer under their control and Laurent had decided that it was coming to an end. “We must ask as we continue the vetting process, you understand—.”

“Carry on.” Laurent uncrossed his legs, and he made a show of reaching for his valise and snapping it shut.

“Are you in any way responsible for your uncle’s death?”

“No.” Laurent answered, “No, there is only one man responsible and he is gone forever.” The fools interrogating him probably thought Laurent was blaming his uncle’s cruelty for his death. But his uncle was utterly insignificant in his thoughts. As Laurent left the police offices in a stride that caused weaker men to leap from his path, only one man pulsed through his mind in a feeling that was equal parts love and pain.

_Damianos with his rippling dark hair and boyish grin. Damianos with his warm, soft lips and unusual gift. Damianos who was gone forever down a dark hole and would never hold him again._

Even though it was a good three miles and he was in brogues normally reserved for work, Laurent walked the entire way home.

 

It was his first time living in this new world.

His uncle was dead. From what Laurent had heard on the news, his entire operation was being investigated and any of his associates were too busy taking what they could, running away, and being arrested for various crimes to be too concerned about what Laurent’s fate was. _Fool, you should have killed him ages ago_.

From what the investigators would tell him, it seemed like Govart, his uncle’s former hired bully, was their newest prime suspect. He could care less of Govart’s fate. No one suspected Laurent anymore and no one could account for the mysterious man who had been in charge of security that night.

Laurent no longer had to look over his shoulder.

He no longer had to worry for Jord and Aimeric and Pallas and Lazar and Charls. The wing would not be renamed for his uncle after all his illegal activities had come to light; it had already been stricken from the library walls.

He would get his rightful inheritance within the year and be recognized as the last of the royal blood of Vere.

There was a feeling of freedom and safety that he had not felt since he was a small child. But he could not enjoy a single moment of it. He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom trying to find the vicious joy he had always taken when he thought of his uncle’s death. But the well had run dry and there was no pleasure in most of his thoughts these days.

He hated the nights because the thoughts came unbidden.

However now instead of touches that made him feel sick to his stomach, he only thought of things that broke his heart.

_No address, no family name, no history. He had never been found in any of the remaining school records, all the videos of him appeared blurry so that no one could seem to get a good look at him. Of course no one would find anything. He was a king who had come out of a fountain and he existed now only in snippets of history books and Laurent’s memories._

Unable to fight back his masochism, Laurent looked at the photos on his phone. By the grace of the gods, they had not blurred and he looked at them any moment he began to…forget.

There he was, clear as day, smiling with wine stained lips, rapt with attention watching one of the films they had rented, staring up lovingly at some of the statues in Laurent’s exhibit. _That_ _crown of butterflies in his wavy black hair_.

Just seeing Damianos’ face again had Laurent’s heart beating faster, though there was an undercurrent of pain to it.

It was easy for him to remember that thousand-kilowatt smile and the companion dimple and the warm skin and the tight embrace. Frigid Laurent melted away in the face of that warmth. Closing his eyes made it more real.

He thought of all the times Damianos had been lying right there next to him—holding him, kissing him—and he had been too fucking afraid to cross the gap. Now all he was left with were fantasies.

They filled up a warm spot of him.

In the dark and secrecy of his own room, Laurent carefully committed to memory the taste of Damianos’ tongue, the feeling of his skin, the shivers that went down his spine when Damianos laughed into his collarbone. _Gods, the weight of his hand on my hip_ , and the skin of his hipbone tingled.

For a sweet, rose-gold tinged moment, Laurent could hear Damianos whispering his name in a whisper like worship. His breath would be warm and sweet on Laurent’s skin, hands cupping him.

The heat poured out of him in quick bursts, spilling into his hands and Laurent was momentarily amazed by the light, fuzzy feeling of it and the absence of feeling the eyes on him in the darkness. But it began to fade as quickly as it had come. He grew colder along with his bedsheets as his sweet memories were wiped off and discarded.

His fantasies of killing his uncle were now useless, as were the beautiful things he would like to do with the man he loved. And now he was left with…nothing.

He was as he always had been: alone and empty.

 

_He screamed as he burst through the water, screamed at it to send him back._

_It was unfinished. His destiny was unfinished and he knew it as surely as he knew himself._

_Even as his mother helped to haul him out of the water, marveling at the clothes on his body, Damianos fought her embrace and scrambled back to the fountain._

_The gods had taken him away too soon. Laurent was still alone._

_“This is not the way it should be! He should have come with me! HE SHOULD BE WITH ME!” He yelled and his voice echoed in panic throughout the caverns. He felt his mother’s hands around his arms, holding him back simply through her familiar touch. “What is the fucking point?”_

_“Damianos.”_

_His mother could always soothe his temper and pain in the past. Her eyes were steady, if a little sad. He turned to her and realized how much he had missed her._

_“Damianos, my beloved son, it is fate. You have fulfilled your first duty and now you are ready to take your birthright. You are ready to be the king of Akielos.” The gold of her rings were cool on his cheek and she smiled, proud of her son. He adored her…_

_But hers was not the smile he most wanted._

_“The gods would not be so cruel.” He said, the cold setting into his skin and bones. “He is…”_

“Damianos!”

_He heard it coming from the fountain, a clear, watery plea that could have stopped his heart. He ran free of his mother’s grip, back to the lip of the fountain where the water had settled. He saw Laurent instead of his reflection, Laurent looking anguished with a halo of solid blue._

_“Laurent, I am here!” Damianos reached through the water, tempting fate in attempt to reach that beloved curator, but his fingers only touched the solid stone bottom of the fountain. When the ripples had receded, Laurent’s reflection was gone._


	12. 12. Bask in the Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurent has been through so much haha and I know the angst is fun but...come on! You had to know that he deserves his happiness.  
> Plus he's the 'king' of Vere now. And it is a fountain for kings....  
> Enjoy! ;)

**12\. Bask in the Glory**

Laurent lived in the dark depression of his thoughts for two weeks before he came to a decision.

The murder during the gala, if anything, had heightened the intrigue of the event. His uncle’s soon-revealed activities and pictures of the museum in all its’ glory had sent the public into a frenzy. Laurent’s exhibit had been praised to the skies and the number of visitors had skyrocketed.

This was all according to Charls, who updated him daily.

After the police had finished their investigation of the museum, Laurent used some of his vacation so that he did not have to go to work for a solid twelve days and in that time he was able to put some things in order.

He had first typed up the standard operating procedures for the curator of the Akielon Art Exhibit, a massive document that did at times seem a bit micromanaged. But it was one of the things he would miss dearly and he only trusted himself to run it properly.

There was no telling how long it might take courts to return his inheritance to him, so he wrote it off as potentially returning to the city of Arles since he had no children. However, he did have his swanky apartment with all his furniture and belongings and a decent savings account.

During those twelve days, he had made an inventory of his things and paid a visit to his lawyer.

It was only due to the memories of war that the lawyer did not for one moment question why a man barely in his mid-twenties was coming to get his ‘affairs in order’, so to speak. When he had finished, Laurent ensured that Lazar would get his apartment and everything he owned, save his underwear, while Jord and Aimeric would split all the money in his account.

He tucked the stiff manila envelope into his casual valise and did not remove it until he arrived back in his apartment. He tossed it onto the kitchen table and then set to work writing.

Laurent wrote all three of them explanations as best he could, feeling his throat tighten for the sheer amount of feeling he put into his admissions. The three letters were sealed and placed next to the manila envelope on his table.

He looked around the cool, dark apartment and found that he would not miss it.

In any case, on the night he had decided, Laurent was preparing a late lunch when he heard a knock at his door. He was cautious still so the kitchen knife came with him.

Charls stood outside with a houndstooth suitcase by his side and a bashful expression on his face, as if he felt he was intruding. Laurent looked him up and down, not wholly certain quite yet if it was an intrusion or not. But then Laurent realized it might be the last time he ever saw Charls and he was able to smile at the surprise visit.

"Charls, how good to see you. Are you traveling?"

Charls gave him an uncharacteristically reserved smile. "I'm so sorry to bother you while you are on vacation but...may I come in?"

"Of course." Laurent moved aside so Charls could enter with his one piece of luggage. He was acutely aware that Charls was taking stock of his dark apartment, smelling of cold and dark, taking note of the official-looking envelopes that were serving as centerpiece on Laurent's table. Laurent swept them to the side as if they were not worth noting.

"I won't stay long." Charls promised. "I just came to...drop off some things." He gestured to the suitcase. "They are...Damianos' things."

Laurent felt dizzy. "I...I see."

"He...he has gone back has he not?" Charls asked. "I have not seen him since the night of the gala and...I do not see him here with you. He has gone back yes? It...it doesn't seem right."

"You never had any doubts about him, did you?"

"No. Many might think me a romantic fool but...I have to find some beauty some things to believe in or I might have a spot of melancholy." It was a roundabout way of telling Laurent this was how he coped with his own personal scars from the past. "That is why the clothes and the inexplicable phenomena brings me some peace." He looked up at Laurent and awkwardly extended his hand to pat Laurent's. "Forgive me for any hurt by my saying but...he should not have left you behind."

Laurent tried to make the action smooth and unaffected but he could not bear to look at Charls. His eyes swam as he stared at the wood grain of his table. 

“It was me.” He admitted. “I had him leave Charls.”

“I regret I could not say goodbye properly. He was a good man. I am sure he would make an even more admirable king.”

Laurent almost told him what he planned as they sat in silence. Instead, all he could get out was, “Thank you, Charls.”

 _It is a pity you could not_ _open up more_ , he thought to himself as he saw Charls stride off down the street, doubtless the most elegantly dressed man on the entire block. _He is a good man and he believes in you. You might have told him how you felt if your ice block heart would allow it_ …

He responded to his own inner chastisements by drawing out a fourth piece of paper, addressing it to his boss, and allowing himself the luxury of one tear as he wrote his profuse apology.

 

It was a little past eleven thirty when Laurent got to the museum and hauled himself up into the cargo bay.

He knew the rotation of the guards in place and had given himself an hour-long window before anyone would come around to check the Akielon Wing. And gods only knew what they would find.

Laurent slipped into the Akielon Art Exhibit, noting that the spots where the cameras had been placed were now empty in preparation for a new security system to be installed. It was perfect for what he was about to do.

The fountain was right where he had left it— _as if it could fucking move_ —and he noticed it was glowing slightly again. He wondered if he was the only one who could see the glow.

With hands that were surprisingly steady, Laurent unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the museum floor. He kicked off his shoes and socks before his pants and underwear also joined the discarded pile. He shivered a little from being naked in the cool exhibit. He had not been naked in a place other his home since he was mid-way through fifteen. But he remembered Damianos had come through naked and Laurent would do all he could to copy the ritual.

Quite instinctually, Laurent tried to cover his cock with his hands.

 _This is the fountain of kings. Damianos told me so and I suppose since I am the only one of Veretian blood left, that makes me the king._ He was unwilling to admit, even the privacy of his own mind that it was a hell of a long shot. _And if it fails_? Laurent did not like to think about it.

He walked on his tiptoes, muffling the sound of his footsteps on the marble floors until he was able to put his hands on the ink-black rim of the fountain. The strips of gold in it pulsed as his skin touched stone and a shudder went up his spine. At least the basin was still filled with fresh water and the surface was a perfect, undisturbed sheet of stars.

Before he could change his mind, he lifted one leg over the rim and plunged it into the water. It was lukewarm at best and he shivered again as the rest of him followed into the water that came up to the inward curve of his waist.

He waited to breathe until the ripples had settled and the stars returned.

He stood still waiting to see if he too would disappear in an explosion of light but nothing happened.

Laurent began to tremble after standing in the tepid water for a few minutes. The museum air conditioning, unlike the security cameras, was brutally efficient and his skin began to feel as cool as marble, no matter how much he rubbed his arms. Still he was determined not to move. Even if he keeled over from exposure, he would wait until the Akielon gods decided to bring him back to Damianos. 

He looked down at the veins of gold and found them to be sparkling normally. His vision blurred and his head ached at the idea that this would not work. 

He looked up at the skylight and saw the stars, the sigil of his country and his house, and he wondered if he was cursed. 

"I do not—I ask for very little." He whispered so that the emotion would not rise up in his chest and spill over. "Am I not allowed to have anyone I love? Is my fate to be alone like this?" It was the most cruel to him that there was no response. "Please!" He called a little louder. " _Please_..." 

More silence and Laurent wondered if there was some ritual that needed to be done. The part of him that loved history and art and Akielos balked at potentially defacing this artifact or forcing himself into a tradition. But he was desperate for Damianos, the tears finally pouring over his cheeks. 

"Take me to him!" He screamed, slapping his palms hard against the stone. " _Please_!" 

It felt like an explosion that rippled up from his feet and caused the marble to slip away from his hands. Water blasted up around him and he was momentarily blinded by the flash of golden light that came from the heart of the fountain. And then he was engulfed by the black hole that came after stars collapsed.

Laurent was not the type to scream in any situation, but it suddenly felt like he was free falling. Water rushed up around him as if he had been swallowed by a massive wave and he could not help himself. He screamed.

Water went down his throat and up his nose and lack of breath added to his terror.

He wondered if the Akielon gods were furious and going to kill him for desecrating their sacred fountain. He felt as though he was being literally ripped in half for a moment and his screams were drowned out by the sound of water rushing around his ears. It was so much worse than dying.

He thought he might pass out from the pain and he reached out his arms hoping that Auguste would pull him gently into the afterlife.

Hands wrapped firmly around his foreams, trying to pull him through the vortex.

And then he could breathe again, he could breathe and he was standing on solid ground and he was still naked and dripping wet but someone was holding him steady. It was a good thing too because he might have toppled over otherwise, simply from the shock of the experience.

“ _Laurent_.”

He opened his eyes and had to keep blinking because his eyelashes were so waterlogged. But even through the dark and the panic and the blur of the water in his eyes, he knew the form in front of him.

Water splashed in every direction as Laurent launched himself against Damianos’ chest and they both slipped down into the basin so that they were both submerged, their feet sticking out of the water at the other end.

When Damianos was able to resurface, Laurent did not allow him the luxury of catching his breath because of the kisses Laurent was insistent on giving.

As he kissed Damianos, Laurent gripped Damianos’ long hair, his cheeks, his shoulders, his arms trying to make sure that the man was tangible. His tongue at the very least felt very, very real. Laurent felt hands on his cheeks and around his waist and thought he might burst into pieces.

“Laurent, Laurent.” Damianos breathed in his name, as he pulled them both to standing. “What the fuck?”

“ _You_ _came_ _back_.” Laurent laughed, his heart giddy.

Damianos pulled back and stroked the wet water from Laurent’s face. “Of course I did, of course…I will not be easy without you. I came back to the fountain as soon as I could, even though it is forbidden.” He only paused to look around dazedly and Laurent felt regret over having him experiencing that vortex three times. “We are in the museum.”

Panic rose in Laurent. “I-I did not mean to—I asked them—the gods—to bring me to you! To you in Akielos! I-I-“ The delight had gone out of him knowing that he had selfishly pulled Damianos out of his own time, forced him to abandon everything important to him. Even if Damianos did not resent him, Laurent would never forgive himself.

Before Laurent could really appreciate the true weight of his guilt, Damianos noticed something. “Laurent _look_.”

Laurent followed his gaze to the semi smooth surface of the water, to their reflections or…what originally appeared to be their reflections. Laurent watched, rapt with attention, remembering the feeling of being torn in half. And then he smiled, filling with relief.

“It is alright? It is…oh gods, oh gods…”

“It is alright.” Damianos said, his voice calm in relief. “See it…it is done. The gods have seen to the fates of a foolish pair of royals. I will stay here with you.”

“I am glad.” Laurent admitted, sinking again into Damianos’ warmth. He realized now he was very chilly. “I am so glad that Akielos will have its’ king. And more…It is all I wanted.”

Damianos cupped him tenderly. “You would have given everything up? For me?”

“Of c-course I would.” Laurent’s teeth chattered as the cold hit him again. He whispered, still shy to even admit his feelings out loud. “I l-love you.” Any other admissions were cut short by Damianos kissing him. _It is an utter relief…to have him back…_

“You tremble.” Damianos whispered against Laurent’s mouth.

“Yeah, it’s f-fucking c-cold.” Laurent replied and the two of them dissolved into quiet laughter.

“Let us find somewhere warm and private.” Damianos said decisively before hoisting Laurent up over the edge of the fountain. “The guards are on duty tonight, yes? I do not like the idea of them seeing you like this.” His expression became dark at the very thought and Laurent laughed as he shivered.

“Th-they don’t ch-check the offices…or the st-storage.” Laurent offered.

Laurent had all of two seconds to pick up his discarded clothes, thoroughly dousing them in the process, before Damianos lost his patience and hustled over to hoist Laurent into the air. For the second time that day, Laurent felt as though he was flying, this time over a sea of marble. It was amazing how smooth his gait was.

As they left the art exhibit, hurtling towards...something, Laurent saw the gold of the fountain blink once, cheekily, as if winking at him. Apparently the Akielon gods were just as wicked and smug as their prince. Still... _thank you_ , he prayed to the gods, to the Sera, to his family, to the universe. 

Damianos was also trembling from the cool air and the water by the time they reached the first massive room of storage.

The storage was cavernous and contained all the decorations, the counterfeits, and the pieces that were not currently on display. Though it seemed like a jumble of statues and vases and boxes and frames and rolled up parchment, Laurent knew where to find anything that they could possibly need.

Damianos set Laurent down so that he could locate the bolts of counterfeit cloth. An enormous false fur was discovered--long enough to cover Damianos' massive frame and still generously pool on the floor--and Damianos wasted no time embracing Laurent into the warm fuzzy recesses. 

Damianos' shoulders were so tall and massive that Laurent was encased on all sides and the cocoon became muggy from heat and water and Laurent's breath. 

"Better?"

Laurent popped his head out from the top of the blanket, the air conditioning in the room refreshing him immediately. Damianos smiled down at him and Laurent knew he would set fire to the storage for that smile. 

“So much better.”

Damianos kissed him again, hunger radiating off of him like heat, and Laurent was more than happy to return the feeling. He tried to drink the heat down from Damianos’ mouth, his stomach slowly filling with fire. Only a few weeks apart and Laurent was desperate to get his fill of Damianos.

“How long was I gone?” Damianos asked as his hands filled Laurent’s hair.

“Too long.” Laurent breathed. “Sixteen days.” He didn’t know where to begin. The thought of beginning from what had gone on after his disappearance was taxing and Laurent’s joy made him honest. “All I could think of…all I could do was regret all the things we had not done.”

Damianos’ eyes flicked up to check and Laurent knew what he would see. His heart skipped beats.

“You—.”

Laurent felt something against his body and he recalled the well-endowed form of his statue. The thought of it did not bother him; on the contrary, he found it a most welcome sensation. “I thought of you in the nights…”

In the archaic Veretian he used there could be no implied meaning. To ‘think of someone in the nights’ was an overly sexual admission and Laurent used it very deliberately.

Damianos reacted accordingly.

His head rested heavy on the hollow of Laurent’s throat, his lips parted and barely touching Laurent’s skin. It was a thousand times better than dreams, than any imaginations Laurent could dream up.

The thing they were hurtling towards suddenly became obvious as Laurent felt hands on his hips, thumbs rubbing the ridge of his pelvis.

“May I?” Damianos breathed into Laurent’s skin as if he could not believe it. “May I? May I have you?”

“You want me?” Laurent leaned his head back so his throat was exposed.

“ _Desperately_.”

Laurent pulled Damianos’ head back up and he groaned into that warm mouth as the thumbs on his hips rubbed torturously gentle circles on the flesh there. In a wrestling move that Laurent had seen employed to devastating results, Damianos swept Laurent’s legs from under him so that they were both lying on the floor between vases and statues, groping each other hungrily.

A warm finger brushed down the length of his backside and Laurent startled.

“We have no lubricant.” Laurent whispered, trying not to panic at the thought of such pain. He knew Damianos would not be so cruel but…old habits died hard. “No oil.”

“Wait for me.” Damianos whispered, slipping out before Laurent could ask what he had planned. _I feel as though I have already waited ages for you_. A moment more would be nothing in comparison.

He ran out for only a moment, leaving Laurent curled up like a pet in an oil painting.

It seemed like he was dreaming when Damianos returned, carrying a small vial of olive oil triumphantly above his head. Laurent was agog nearly laughing as Damianos slid back into the fur.

“Where did you get such a thing?” He asked as Damianos unstoppered the cap.

Damianos paused only to kiss Laurent’s nose before he poured the oil onto his palms. “An offering to the gods for the success and safety of the gala. It clearly did not work to effect so…we should use it to honor them in other ways.”

Diving beneath the furs, Damianos worked with amazing efficiency.

His red-hot mouth plastered long, sloppy kisses on Laurent’s thighs and hips—tantalizingly close—strands of his long hair tickling the head of Laurent’s cock; his hands were hard at work in the back, Laurent helpfully raising his hips so that he could be oiled to satisfaction.

Never had he been serviced in such a way and the first orgasm took him completely by surprise.

Normally it took Laurent ages to break down his mental guards when it came to release but all Damianos had to do was rub his hole while simultaneously sucking him down in the front. The pleasure was so intense that Laurent’s legs went rigid and his eyes rolled back in his head. He could not control the stream and simply spilled helplessly into Damianos’ mouth.

The edge of the furs came up for only a moment so that Damianos could grin up at Laurent, fishing for compliments.

“Do I please you?”

Laurent shuddered from the aftershocks and the addition of a second finger. “I regret not having you ravish me the moment you came through that fountain.” He spoke in modern Veretian but Damianos seemed to understand, kissing Laurent’s navel. “ _Please_.”

Damianos needed no further invitation, caressing Laurent until he was nearly catatonic from the pleasure and the warmth.

Hot and firm and thicker than any cock had the right to be—though Laurent recalled the lovely proportions of Damianos’ body—Laurent felt it slide between his buttocks. Fear could not take hold because Damianos was _vocal_ and he groaned as if Laurent had already given him the greatest pleasure on earth.

“Damianos—.”

“Laurent can I—may I…” He asked in archaic Akielon and used the honorable term for ‘make love’ though all the most recent translations had it as, “may I deflower you?”

“I…I am not a virgin.” Laurent whispered, wondering if Damianos would very much mind. He knew that some kings in Akielos would not deign to sleep with anyone who was not a virgin and the self-destructive part of himself was ready for immediate sabotage.

Damianos kissed him and it was achingly gentle. “Do you truly think me so callous? I love _you_ and do not desire only your maidenhead.” His eyes flicked to the aura above Laurent’s head. “Besides…I have been told that the first time with me might as well be the first night.”

Laurent slapped his shoulder and laughed to hide his embarrassment. “You braggart.”

Damianos laughed a little as well and kissed the corners of Laurent’s lips. “If you wish…I may give a practical demonstration so that you may form your own opinion.”

“You talk to much.” Laurent whispered, his giggles subsiding into kisses. “My mind has not changed. I…I _want_ you.”

Maybe it was their close accommodations. Perhaps it was the heat from the fur and their breath and blush. Or maybe it was the fact they had been reunited and were about to make love in an illicit place. In any case, Damianos slid inside Laurent with alarming ease and both of them shuddered as if they were close to finishing.

 _Gods, but he was big._ Laurent felt as though each movement, each shudder of Damianos’ rippling up Laurent’s spine until their lips trembled in unison. When they began to set a natural rhythym, neither one of them felt brave enough to moan aloud. Damianos was coaxing Laurent open in the halls where they had spilled blood and water and torn a hole in history; at most Damianos groaned into Laurent’s skin while Laurent softened his cries to shaky gasps at most.

_So this is what people live and die for. Gods, it was like heaven._

“Is it rose?” He whispered against Damianos’ throbbing wet temple. “No blue?”

Damianos smiled against Laurent’s cheek, nipping at it. “I need not look. I can _feel_ your colors.”

Laurent was so delighted by the idea that he arched his hips up as high as they would go, causing Damianos to clench his fists next to Laurent’s head with the exertion of holding himself back.

That kind of power was beautiful to Laurent. He had finally figured out how to disarm Damianos and fully intended to gloat about it later on.

There was the click of a lock and Laurent and Damianos looked at each other with wide, shocked eyes. Apparently the security had switched up their rounds after the murder.

The fur came up over Laurent’s head and suddenly he and Damianos were closer than Laurent ever dreamed they could be.

 _He’s so handsome_ , Laurent thought warmly before he could catch himself and then blushed for his lack of awareness. There was a very real chance that they were going to be caught if they did not keep very still.

The security guard opened the door with practiced laziness and Laurent could feel every muscle in his body tensing, including the ones with a firm grip around Damianos. His groan was low and light, thankfully muffled by the furs and Laurent grabbed one of Damianos’ hands to press over his mouth.

 _You started this fire…now take responsibility_.

As the flashlight made a quick pass through the shadows of the storage room, Laurent pressed his hips up insistently and Damianos responded by pressing his hand down tighter on Laurent’s mouth and thrusting shallowly.

Hopefully the guard would not notice one gently shifting roll of fur behind the vases and statues and boxes. Laurent was becoming high on his own breath, uncaring if they were caught so long as Damianos—

_Rubbed that spot, yes that one right there, gods!_

Laurent shuddered from pleasure and tension as a slice of light cut across his face. Damianos bit him gently on the collarbone and Laurent felt Damianos’ lips tremble.

When the sound of the door clicked closed, the hand slipped away from Laurent’s mouth.

The breath of fresh air, the release of tension, and Damianos’ renwed movement had Laurent yanking Damianos’ hair like reins. His toes tried to grip the marble and he moaned through a closed mouth. Damianos gripped him tight, clearly close himself. The fur tickled his skin.

“More?”

“ _Yes_.” Laurent begged. _Twenty_ - _some years devoid of all this pleasure?_ He needed to make amends. He reached out to hold on to something substantial and gripped the marble ankle of a youth statue as Damianos moved Laurent onto his stomach without removing his cock.

“I love you…love you.” Damianos whispered so close that the words soaked into Laurent’s skin.

Laurent pulled Damianos deeper into him, simply gasping his name with all the love in his chest. His veins pulsed gold in those moments. He was a star ready to burst. He was the fountain god. He was the king of Vere.

In the morning there would be a lot to consider. 

Charls would need an explanation. Laurent would need to burn the farewells he had written. They would need to lie low until the investigation had gone cold or a scapegoat suspect had been found. Laurent would need to stay out of the city until his inheritance was settled. He would need Damianos to do that marvelous thing with his tongue again.

The world was suddenly full of possibilities, but the first thing he needed to do was to snuggle down into their dark haven and stoke the fire in his hips. He would let it consume him until he Damianos fell asleep in the sweat-soaked fur.

When he had been wrung out, Laurent dreamt of warm villas and the steady wash of the tide and of Damianos. The sun and sky blazed gold and blush. 

 

_What they had seen was what Laurent and Damianos had seen from the other side of the water._

_Laurent was looking up at Damianos smiling like a fool, unable to believe that he had really and truly done it before he felt a soft touch on his shoulder. It took him a moment to realize that they were standing in a cave of stone that seemed to glow faintly white._

_The person who was touching him was an Akielon woman._

_She was well into middle age judging by the silver in her long black hair, gold jewelry at her brow and neck and wrists and fingers. He knew she was Damianos’ mother; though he must have gotten his height and musculature from his father, Damianos had inherited his mother’s liquid dark eyes and her stately nose and her dimple._

_And, after a moment of surveying him, the habit of flicking her eyes to the spot just over people’s heads._

_He knew she would see a shimmering rose gold wreath of light over his head._

_He smiled back at her as he hugged her son closer to him. Laurent was never going to try so hard to make a person love him. After all, he intended to be with Damianos for the rest of his life._

_She seemed to chastise Damianos for a moment and he laughed, bashful in front of his mother. The ancient Akielon was too quick for Laurent but he’d get it…eventually. Damianos translated._

_“She says she hopes it was worth it to break the rules.”_

_Her eyes were twinkling wickedly and her cheek threatened to dimple and Laurent had the feeling that she would fight the gods themselves if it made her son one iota happier. Damianos for his part looked nervous._

_“You will not—you truly wish to stay with me?”_

_Damianos was worried he would have regrets about staying but there had never been any question for Laurent. His happiness was hollow when Damianos was not by his side._

_“I do. I feared I would never find one who makes me laugh as you do.”_

_Damianos grinned so bright, Laurent thought it would break his heart before kissing him—most inappropriately in front of his mother, Laurent thought. When Damianos let him go, Laurent caught sight of himself in the dark water and nearly leapt into the air._

_His reflection in the water was speaking, the words silent and unheard as it looked up at Damianos. Less like a mirror, the water looked like a window and Laurent had the feeling he was looking at two utterly different people through it. He could see the ceiling of the museum though above him now was only a cave. The mirror image of Damianos pointed down and Laurent’s ‘reflection’ looked down at him._

_He looked amazed. Then he looked relieved. And happy. So very happy._

_Laurent’s heart throbbed a little with a momentary pass of jealousy. He prayed that sometimes he might see the portrait of his family again in dreams, that some part of his split soul would spill over to him on occasion._

_“Are you ready?” Damianos asked, not at all fazed by what they were seeing._

_Laurent nodded taking one last look. “I’m ready.” He bowed his head to the Laurent and Damianos on the other side and they reached down to touch the surface, as if to steady him._

_Damianos helped him out of the fountain and neither one of them looked back._


	13. 13. The Blessing of All That You’ve Dreamed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER STORY COMPLETED!  
> Sorry for the late update; I usually do a short lunch and drop by my room to update but I had a long ass meeting today and I had no time to slip away...  
> I know that last chapter was a lot and maybe some of you were hoping I would take a strong stance and force them to choose but...NAH haha! I want everyone to be happy, even if it is cheesy.   
> And with that the 'Thor' AU comes to an end! I will miss it so much, especially the colors above people's heads but I am hard at work on another story that I SHOULD be able to start by next week ;) (Also I hope that somebody noticed that I updated this fic every Thursday=AKA. Thor's Day! Haha!)   
> Anyways, thank you all for dropping by to read this fic! I hope you enjoyed it and I cannot thank you all for the comments and kudos and messages you've sent me about it. I adore you all <3  
> Enjoy!

**13\. The Blessing of All That You’ve Dreamed**

Laurent woke up feeling sticky even though it was, at most, only mid morning.

They had set up their tent under the shade of some trees, just as Lazar had suggested, but even the sea breeze was hot and not even kicking off blankets and clothes until he was sleeping sprawled out and nude could keep him from sweating like he had run for miles.

He grumbled, dissatisfied as he felt Damen’s warm body pressing close next to him and attempted to wriggle out of the embrace to no avail.

He gave up and just decided to be hot and miserable.

Annoyed with Damen for being so warm and heavy and handsome, Laurent poked his cheeks and pulled the stubble on his chin until he saw one eye open. The gaze was somehow tired, annoyed and amused all at once.

“It is too early to annoy me.” He groaned and rolled over so that he was crushing Laurent into their bedding.

“It is too early to be so hot.” Laurent complained in return.

He squealed a little bit as Damen redoubled his attack, nestling deep into Laurent and kissing him along the cords of his neck. He yelped even more as he felt Damen’s tongue on his skin. His asshole tingled.

“Damen. Damen! _Damianos_!”

Using Damianos’ fully name had him pulling back—they had been using the pseudonym of ‘Damen’ ever since he had returned in order to deter police interest, though Laurent wasn’t sure how successful they had been.

“What?” His lips were wet.

“I am filthy.” Laurent said recalling that the current sweat was layered over last night’s sheen from when their nightly lovemaking had been sultry and slick. “I need to shower.”

“I like the way you taste.” Damen shrugged, entirely unrepentant. Laurent felt the tongue and lips on him again and found he was too hot to really fight over this. He let Damen suckle him until he was limp and pliant.

“Better?” Damen asked, resting his chin on Laurent’s breast.

“Still hot.”

“We can shower then.” Damen promised, hoisting himself to a kneeling position, which was all their tent would allow for his size.

Damen had, after many nights of simply tossing them aside within moments of getting into bed, finally refused to wear boxer shorts to bed. Laurent could hardly complain as he was suddenly at eye-level with the most beautiful buttocks he had ever left long scratches in.

Out into the brilliant hot light of Lentos they went, Laurent as always marveling at the stark beauty of the place. Mostly scrub brush and fruit trees and winter villas that stuck to the Akielon style, despite only being a few years old. Even though it was barely mid-morning, the sun was bright and yellow, baking the white stones of walls and foundations and glinting off the sea. Laurent felt a breeze that bordered on cool from the waves and ached to throw himself in. _Later,_  he promised himself knowing that they would need to take a break at midday to avoid the heat.

They had camped out on the hillside close to the dig site after a man in a pub the previous night had taken offense to Laurent’s very existence in Lentos and Damen had very nearly started a brawl. Alexon, the local mayor’s son and Lazar’s contact in Lentos, had showed them a place about twenty minutes outside the city where their group could camp near a collapsing villa. Though they had to resort to tents due to the dubious stability of the villa roof, there was a cluster of overgrown fruit trees, a good vegetable garden and a miraculously usuable toilet near an outdoor standing shower linked to the local spring.

In any other situation the water would have been nearly unbearable, but Laurent was so hot that he felt like rosy steam would rise from his skin the moment the water touched him. The delightful feeling of cooling off was only compounded when Damen began to lather shampoo into his hair.

He made a soft noise of pleasure and snuggled back into Damen.

“We are outside.” Damen warned.

Laurent looked down, pleased to see what the wet sight of his backside did to Damianos. “ _We_ are outside. I am fine.”

“ _Fuck_ you.” Damen’s voice came out in a rasp of desire and his forehead rested hard on Laurent’s shoulder. Laurent laughed at him, always delighted when Damen used ‘fuck’. Usually it was when he was filled with a mixture of desire for and annoyance with Laurent.

“Wait for a little longer.” Laurent insisted sweetly, turning around so he could twine his arms around Damen’s neck and kiss him. “I don’t want to sweat.”

Damen kissed his shoulders, hands massaging soap onto Laurent’s ass cheeks for a suspiciously long time. “If only you were used to the heat. I like the taste of your sweat.”

Laurent gave him a good-natured glare. “You barbarian.”

As always he regretted his stubborn, sensible side when the shower was turned off and Damen stood in front of him, wet and shining and as gorgeous as the gods had made any man. He patted Laurent dry and then wrapped the towel deftly around Laurent’s waist.

Like most people in Akielos, Damen had no issue walking about naked.

Back in the campsite Laurent had already begun to sweat again as he changed into his light digging clothes; he and Damen were going to look at the spot that had yielded a great deal of artifacts before walking back down to the village to purchase lunch.

Damen was preparing to put on his tank top, much to Laurent’s dismay, when they heard rustling behind them.

"Boss!" Lazar rolled out of his tent only wearing a wide brimmed hat, "You’re up early! Want some help?"

Laurent ignored the fact that Lazar, like most Akielons, did not have any tan lines. He could hardly be mad at the man in any case, after all the help he and Pallas had offered. 

When Damen had returned through the fountain, Lazar had taken one look at Damen, shrugged his shoulders, and then gotten a stack false paperwork and IDs for a nominal fee. Laurent was pretty sure Jord had helped with the illicit identity, having a steady hand and plenty of experience forging medical documents during the war. Aimeric, Charls, Halvik, Kashel and Makedon had silently accepted Damen’s reappearance without question or a word to the police. None of them had blinked, as a matter of fact.

When Lazar had invited Laurent and Damen down to what had once been Akielos for a six-month excavation in Lentos, Charls had been more than willing to let Laurent go for that time.

“It is common for us to take sabbaticals for research. I am only surprised you did not ask to go before.” Charls said, clearly nostalgic from his own trips. “Get some sun and swim in the sea and get your hands dirty.”

“You have been reading adventure novels again, haven’t you?” Laurent said fondly.

Still, it amazed him that everyone had been so ready to help. He said as much to Damen one night when he hoped the darkness would hide the colors above his head. The sound of Damen’s heart through his bare chest gave him some comfort.

“They love you. They wish to bring you joy. Even if they may suspect what I have done.”

The thought gave Laurent a feeling like a warm stone in his chest. They knew now what Laurent’s uncle had done. They had probably guessed what had been done to Laurent and were willing to defy law for his honor. Their love for him was so overwhelming, he couldn’t deny it.

So Laurent did not immediately chastise Lazar for his near-constant nudity.

“We should be ok for now,” Damen said, tossing one arm over Laurent’s shoulder in a show of possessiveness. “We can begin the proper—how you say…digging up after 4 PM. Then it will be cooler.”

“You need us now?” Pallas leaned out of the flaps of Lazar’s tent looking lush and beautiful, his thick hair pouring over his shoulders. Spending so much time in the south, Laurent’s Akielon was improving by day.

“Not yet.” Damen assured him. “Sleep some more.”

Pallas grinned at them both and then turned his lovely gaze to Lazar. He wheedled in Akielon at first and then switched to Veretian, running his fingertips up the muscle of Lazar’s calf. “Sweet, come back to me. Back to sleep.”

Lazar shrugged at Laurent and Damen as if such seduction could hardly be argued with. Back into the tent he went, having the good manners at least to remove his hat before he entered.

Laurent was pleased they had decided to stay on the campsite with their hungover rum runners and the Akielon diggers. That way he and Damen could have a moment alone to admire whatever new piece they had discovered. Damen had a shovel and a pry bar slung over his shoulder while Laurent carried his bag of delicate tools up the rocky hill, already feeling sweat beading on the small of his back. 

His breezy shirt was beginning to stick in several places when Laurent felt the tug of...something, and something strong, nearly causing him to run into Damen's back. He too had stopped and looked back at Laurent. 

"Do you feel it too?" 

"Yes," Laurent said. "Is it ok? Is it alright?"

"I think...it may be memory." Damen said. "But I can't be sure."

However, the moment he said so it seemed to click to Laurent. Like a memory from years ago, half fog and half feeling, Laurent tried to grab hold of anything solid. _Cool...white...beautiful...down into the ground it went and he was...happy, so happy_. Damen squeezed his hand. 

"Do you think?" He asked.

"I would." Laurent laughed. 

Their step was livelier toward the dig site, a beautiful place on a high cliff with steps chiseled into the rock down to the sea. The mosaic and marble floors of the sprawling estate had long since been worn away, the walls and pillars barely nubs in comparison to what they must have been in their glory days. For some reason he could imagine how it had been in the past, as if he had been standing there before, taking in the sea breeze. 

"Do you know this place Damen?" He asked carefully. Ever since their arrival in Akielos, Laurent had been cautious about asking of the Akielos of Damen's past. He did not want to know how much the man had lost since choosing him. But he felt the recognition in himself and wondered. 

"Of course." Damen said in a dreamy tone. "This was once my summer home.”

“I…I am sorry.” Laurent responded.

Damen was quiet for a moment. "There are some things worth more than a palace by the sea." He said with quite a bit of feeling. “No blue, my love.”

"Indoor plumbing?" Laurent offered to hide his blush. 

"Mobile phone cameras." Damen replied and Laurent knew that about 90% of Damen's photos were of him.

"Subway turnstiles?"

"A very sweet young lady." Damen finally got him with that one and Laurent pushed him. Damen kissed the top of his head. "This land might be available. Maybe we might look into building a vacation home here." Laurent liked the idea. Normally he might not have entertained the idea of a vacation home so far south but he was beginning to realize that he would do just about anything to see Damen happy in the present. 

"After we finish excavation."

"A curator through and through." Damen laughed again. "I shall watch happily as you dig us a wine cellar." Laurent felt the flat side of the shovel tap him lightly on his ass.

Laurent bumped his head against Damen's bare shoulder. 

Together they walked to where the dig site was set up in what had probably once been the courtyard. There were a few shallow square holes with the first edges of the artifacts peeking out of the red-brown soil. None of them had the same tugging feeling he had experienced earlier.

“I wonder…” Damen said, walking to where a lavish garden must have stood at some point. Now it was overgrown to a near jungle. “I wonder if it still stands.” Laurent followed him into the foliage, amazed at how even the shadows were as hot as hell.

Damen had already taken the shovel from his shoulder and was digging down beneath a gnarled old olive tree.

“Did you bury treasure here as a child?” Laurent’s mouth was a little dry from watching Damen’s oiled shoulders flex with digging.

“In a manner of speaking…”

The shovel hit something that sounded hollow and wooden about one foot beneath the earth and Damen looked triumphant as he pulled a heavy wooden trapdoor up from under the roots of the olive tree. _Hell of a royal secret_.

“And you wanted me to dig a wine cellar.”

“It is not a wine cellar.” _Whatever it is, it is tugging on my heart_.

He would have followed Damianos to the long distant past, following him down a hole in the depths of the earth under an olive tree with only a flashlight was nothing. He wondered how the hell the tunnel had avoided the destruction of the war. _Maybe it is magic that kept it intact for so long. Maybe there was another fountain waiting for them at the end of the surprisingly intact stairwell, maybe another tear in time, a black hole, something inexplicable and magic_.

“You can inspect it later,” Damen begged, feeling Laurent’s desire to carefully inspect every inch of the terracotta walls, especially the painted designs of the border that were so— “Laurent, _please_!” Damen laughed as he stumbled, “I cannot see if you keep that light trained on the walls.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

It must have been used as storage or a place for the kitchens to keep canned goods and wine, but...it couldn't be. The feeling was too strong.

At the bottom of the stairs was a small antechamber with various sealed amphora, smelling of dust from years long past. So deep down, Laurent knew now how it had survived the ravages of time and war.  _I instructed it to be built that way_ \--no, he had never been here before but...

"Laurent." Damen motioned him over, grinning widely. 

"What?"

He saw it and there was no question then.  

It was there, packed in a wooden box in the cool dry darkness, a box that was uncommon in Akielos. It looked a lot like the ones that were delivered to the cargo bay of the museum. He could feel Damen shaking with laughter next to him.

“What?” He was preemptively blushing.

“Even a thousand years ago, you keep a curator’s habits.”

“It would get damaged!” Laurent hissed.

Damen apologized with a kiss to the forehead. “It is dangerous, how charming you are.”

Laurent was allowed the prybar and popped the box open with ease and a fine powder that might have been once been hay puffed into the air causing them both to either sneeze or cough.

Laurent ignored his runny nose and instead dug his hands down deep into the powder. He knew the feeling of marble and—just as with the fountain—he traced his fingertips along the fine, cool curves.

“What is it?” Damen asked.

“Stone,” Laurent went back to the task at hand, clearing the dust from inside the box, Damen finally deigning to join in after a few moments. His large hands made wide swipes, the yellow dust looking like flakes of gold on his skin. Laurent felt his pulse quicken with excitement, like he was discovering a long-lost companion.

When they had cleared enough to get a good look…

“Oh gods.” Laurent whispered, his tone torn between a gasp of awe and tremors of disbelieving laughter.

“Of course you would have me commissioned in stone.” Damen whispered and Laurent snorted, shoving against him. To be honest, it could have been either one of them. He often thought to himself that Damen immortalized in the nude would be priceless in marble and would have recommended his lover sit for art students if Laurent wasn’t the jealous type. And of course Damen had seen Laurent’s delight in the statues. Of course he would think to make a gift of one.

Nestled deep below the earth was a perfect marble statue, smooth and white with veins of black and gold.

Inescapable was the fact that it was clearly Laurent and Damen. Laurent’s hair was longer and a crown of leaves had been carved around his brow. Damen was leaning in to him, his form somehow even more beautiful for how it seemed to circle Laurent.

He had not looked through the history books in search of what might have happened to the images in the other side of the fountain. He saw some things in dreams and could only hope that their joy was complete. This statue seemed to be a testament to their love.

Damen traced the high marble cheekbone that perfectly matched Laurent’s. “It is…the artist did you justice.”

“You’re sweet.” Laurent murmured. “And it is beautiful…so beautiful.”

More dust was sifted away and Laurent saw something black at the bottom. He and Damianos both laughed in disbelief as their marble legs disappeared at mid-thigh into a smaller version of the black fountain. The sense of humor remained consistent at least.

“We must bring it back to your apartment.” Damen insisted. “I do not want all of Marlas to look at you like this.”

“Maybe we can keep it in the home we build here. I’d like that.” Laurent’s fingers trembled as he slowly placed them on the beautifully preserved marble. He thanked the two people from long in the past who had done so much to bring him joy. He was sure his invisible halo was a solid rose gold.

“It says something on the bottom.” Damen offered, dusting off the base of the statue. Laurent saw the flash of gold lettering and leaned over to read.

‘ _Be happy_ ,’ it read simply beneath two names.

“The names?” Laurent asked, somehow knowing what they were. _I remember the feeling of the wood, I remember seeing the statue as it was first made, I know…even though I shouldn’t. I feel it in my dreams._

Damen smiled and squeezed Laurent’s hand.

“Damianos, king of Akielos, and Laurent, husband of the king.”

“Be happy.” Laurent whispered. He was happy. He was so happy, he could feel it pulsing above and around him in a solid halo of gold and pink.

 


End file.
